


Those Harbour Lights

by theimpossiblegeekygrrl



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Broken Families, Childhood Trauma, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 04, Healing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Past Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Slightly erotic but kind of interesting, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimpossiblegeekygrrl/pseuds/theimpossiblegeekygrrl
Summary: "Don’t view the world in such black and white tones. Dr Lecter lives in those grey areas, without boundaries or rules. He’s anything he wants to be, if it’s convenient for his goals."Clarice Starling, Victim Specialist at the Baltimore Field Office of the FBI, gets tangled in the spider's web when she tries to help a family find their son.Hannibal series continuity. I no longer use their fandom tag for personal reasons.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

"Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have to dig a little to find it."  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

There were exactly three sets of permissions required before one could begin the arduous journey to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane to seek an audience with Hannibal Lecter, MD.

He was no longer allowed the privileges afforded most of the facility's occupants. Use of a telephone was strictly forbidden; correspondence could only occur by letters which were meticulously screened, by the final ruling of the Supreme Court. His psychiatrists and nurses were rotated regularly, as he routinely attempted to manipulate anyone so cursed as to be charged as his caregiver. And, following Alana Bloom's hasty departure, he was placed in the deepest basement quarters given to the most severe offenders, with no access to sunshine or any of his previous luxuries, save for his books, drawing paper, and children's crayons to sketch with. There were now ten keys between Hannibal Lecter and the front door that the administrator held in hand, whenever someone was forced to enter his cell.

Clarice Starling had achieved two of the permissions and was on her way to obtain the last. The Department of Justice and the current BSHCI administrator had also required interviews, though neither had given her the difficulty that Jack Crawford delivered.

"It's probably why he hasn't had a visitor in over four years," she muttered to herself. Her heels clacked loudly in the halls at Quantico as she rushed to his office. She was almost late; her job had its own set of difficulties, and she refused to leave a family in need, even for the sake of another.

The door to his office was flat black, and the simple placard that announced his name just as unpretentious. Her hand shook when she raised it to knock, and she tightened it, willing her nerves to settle.

"Enter."

Though Clarice had been warned about the mass of scars on his face, she had to take a few controlling breaths as Jack rose from his chair to greet her.

"Good afternoon, Mr Crawford. I'm –"

"Starling, Clarice M," he said. "Please, take a seat."

The chair across from his desk was comfortable, and she accepted the cup of coffee he offered to her.

"Sugar?"

"Yes, and cream if you have it."

"I do."

The coffee was strong, and the caffeine sharpened her brain at first sip. Jack took his chair and stared at her, as though sizing her up.

"I thought I recognised your name, Miss Starling. You attended a seminar I taught at UVA… seven years ago?"

"Eight," she said.

He nodded. "As I recall, you grilled me pretty heavily about the rights of prisoners in federal facilities."

"I did."

"I gave you an A."

"A-minus, sir. I still appreciate it, despite the amount of cheek I showed you."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty."

"It was impressive, for one so young. As is your CV. Bachelor's in Social Work and Victimology, Master's in Psychology from Yale. Counselling experience at Johns Hopkins after you graduated. How long have you been at the FBI?"

"Three years."

"Ambitious. Do you enjoy being a Victim's Specialist?"

"I don't know if enjoy is the right word. It's fulfilling, and I go home at night believing I'm doing what I was put on this Earth to do. That's all I can ask for."

Jack steepled his fingers under his chin and regarded her. His direct gaze made her uneasy, but she didn't break eye contact, staring at him just as intently as he did her.

"I haven't granted anyone permission to see Hannibal Lecter in years. Why should I start with you?"

"Because it's not about me. I'm not an up and coming doctor trying to make a name for myself, or a journalist trying to make a quick buck. I'm trying to help a family make peace with the death of their child."

"The Princeton student."

"He's been dead for twelve years, and his grandmother wants to bury him before she dies. She has pancreatic cancer, and she won't be here much longer."

"And if you find out where he is, you'll be able to go home and sleep a little easier?"

"No, sir. I don't sleep very much. I just want to do the right thing by her. That's all."

"You've written Dr Lecter once a month for the last year, requesting that he tell you the location of the body. Has he ever answered?"

"Once," Clarice said. She took the envelope from her bag and handed it to him.

Jack opened it and read the letter inside. "This is a recipe for Muhammara."

"It's all he's ever given me."

"Do you scare easily, Miss Starling?"

"Not really, no. In my job, as in yours… you hear everything. Sometimes you have to quiet it down until it's white noise, like that recipe for dip."

"If I give you permission to see him, you will have to be on your guard as you've never been before. You take and give nothing to him or from him. That includes any conversation he tries to initiate with you."

"Yes, sir."

"No personal information. No polite asides. If he doesn't give you the information you want, you leave and don't look back. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

He put the recipe in the envelope and passed it to her. "Do you know what happened to Will Graham?"

She nodded. "I was in grad school when the Tooth Fairy was active. The aftermath was all over the news."

"That wasn't the total aftermath. Will Graham died two weeks ago."

"How?"

Jack stood and walked to the window. The blinds were open, providing a nice view of the grounds outside. "He was living in Florida under an assumed name after he and Hannibal… after. He's spent the last five years trying to drink himself to death, and he slit his wrists two weeks ago since he hadn't succeeded."

"It didn't make the papers."

"It wouldn't have. We made sure of it."

"Was it really him?"

"DNA and fingerprints, just to be sure," Jack said softly. "Will was my friend, once. What happened to him will not happen to another person. Not on my watch."

"You believe Dr Lecter is that evil?"

"I know he is, Miss Starling. What do you believe?"

She stood; her legs unsteady as she walked to the window next to him. "I believe evil is a strong word. But I also don't believe there is a word to describe what Dr Lecter is, so perhaps evil is the closest you can come up with."

"If I give you permission to go, will you deliver him the news for me?"

Clarice closed her eyes, and with a sensation that felt not unlike falling, she whispered, "Yes."

"I'll have my decision tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir." She took her bag and walked to the door, though she looked back once, freezing the image of Jack Crawford by the window in her mind. He was physically and mentally strong and braver than almost anyone she had ever met. But when his hand went to his face, covering his eyes…

Even though she wasn't an agent and had never fired a gun, Clarice would have killed for him.

Jack had a habit of bringing out that emotion in the people he met.

* * *

The answer came by letter the next morning. The white envelope stood out among the clutter on her desk; her name typed out with an old-fashioned typewriter. The visit stipulations were detailed, as was the additional letter Jack had typed to Hannibal Lecter, briefly relaying the facts regarding Will's death.

Clarice didn't know whether to be relieved or even more apprehensive. She chose the former and lifted the phone to call Keith Deihl's grandmother.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Diehl? It's Clarice Starling."

"It's early, honey."

"I know, but I wanted to tell you that I got the final permission to see Dr Lecter."

A beat. "Thank you."

"He may not give me anything, Mrs Diehl."

"I know that. But you've gone further than anyone else has to try to find him. It matters. At least, it matters to me."

"I'd do it for anyone, but I'm glad I've been able to do this for you."

"When are you going to that… pit?"

"This afternoon."

"Be safe, Miss Starling. I saw him in court, years ago, and he looked through me like I didn't exist. He's a monster."

"That's what they say."

"I'll be praying for you."

"I'd appreciate that, Mrs Diehl. I'll be in touch."

Clarice hung up the phone and looked at herself in the small mirror she kept in her desk. She hadn't dressed this morning thinking that the interview would happen on the same day she got the answer, but it would have to work. She kept a spare jacket hanging on her door, which might make her look a little more professional than the bright dress she'd chosen to wear. At least she'd changed purses, from her old canvas bag to the Prada tote she'd saved up for. Appearances mattered to Dr Lecter, and she hoped that she hadn't ruined her chances of getting information from him because she'd decided to enjoy the first day of spring.

* * *

The administrator met her at the front door.

"Clarice Starling?"

"Mr Matthews?"

"Please, call me Barney," he said, warmly shaking her hand. "I asked you to last time."

"Barney," she murmured. "I guess I'm used to formalities."

"Let's go to my office and talk."

She followed him to a large room on the first floor, the same one they'd met in a month ago. Her eyes wandered to the patients who helped run the first floor; trustees, given greater privileges than the rest due to their good behaviour and low flight risk.

"John, will you take Miss Starling's jacket?" Barney asked. The young man was dressed in white, sitting behind a desk close to the office.

"No, I'm fine. I get cold easily."

"Suit yourself."

Barney opened the door for her, pulling out a chair at the small conference table they'd used previously.

"Now, there are several rules you need to follow down in the basement. Don't forget them, but don't be too nervous either. We'll be watching you."

"I appreciate that, Barney."

"Do not touch the glass or come near the glass of his cell in any way. You may pass him soft paper, but it must be free of any metal. No paperclips or staples, brads or bindings of any kind. If he asks for anything else, speak with an orderly first. I understand you have a letter for him."

"Yes, but it is standard copy paper. Nothing else."

"Good. If he speaks to you beyond your questions or complains of symptoms of any kind, I'd ask that you contact an orderly or nurse immediately and report back to my office. Did you hear about what happened to his last visitor?"

"No."

"I won't show you the pictures. A well-meaning reporter received permission for an interview about four years ago, and Dr Lecter complained of chest pain during the conversation. That was before my time, and rules had gotten relaxed. The nurse came to check on him and left the door open for less than a minute when he ran to get the crash cart. The reporter was dead by the time he got back; his head almost torn from his body. Dr Lecter was wearing a portable pulse oximeter, and his heart rate was sixty-eight, even though he was eating the man's tongue."

_"God."_

Barney sighed. "There is no god here, Clarice. You'll see that, soon enough."

"God is everywhere, Barney. Even here."

"He's not in hell, Clarice. And Dr Lecter's cell is the closest place to it on Earth." He tapped his fingers on the table; a quick staccato beat sounding from his short nails. "I worry about you, going down there, and said as much in my letter to Jack Crawford. He hasn't seen a woman since he was recaptured, and you are just his taste."

Clarice frowned and looked at her hands. "That's a thing to say, Mr Matthews."

"Merely the truth. I fear for the disruption of order if anything about that man gets turned on in the slightest."

"I didn't think his tastes went in my direction, after—"

"Don't view the world in such black and white tones. Dr Lecter lives in those grey areas, without boundaries or rules. He's anything he wants to be if it's convenient for his goals."

"I'll remember that."

"See that you do. I'll walk you down myself if you'd like."

"Please."

There were no elevators at the BSHCI, and Clarice navigated the six flights of stairs in her heels, keeping up with Barney's quick, long-legged pace. The basement was clean, but there was a foul odour underneath the scent of the strong cleansers. She knew that smell, after the few visits she'd given her father when she was a teenager. It was the stink of violence, and of fear. Her stomach rolled slightly, but she swallowed the bile rising at the back of her throat.

"Would you like me to wait for you?"

She nodded, staring dazedly at the nurse's station. She'd seen dozens of them, as a patient and as a psychologist. But she'd never seen one with loaded weapons behind glass. A guard sat at the desk with a nurse in blue scrubs, both cleaning shiny pistols.

"You'll do fine, Clarice, but don't forget what I said. And when you walk down the corridor, stay close to the far wall. Not all our patients have glass. Bobby sat a chair out for you to use. He's at the very end, six down."

"Thank you, Barney."

"I'll be watching."

Clarice straightened her back as she walked, staying close to the wall and avoiding eye contact with the men jeering at her. When she passed the fifth cell, a high voice hissed at her, saying, "I can smell your pretty pussy, little girl."

She closed her eyes, quickly snapping the band around her left wrist, and continued walking until she saw the light reflecting off the glass. Sketches covered the walls inside, sketches of places she had never been. A man stood in the centre of a small, grey bricked room, his uniform almost blinding white in the darkness. He was tall, but his erect posture made him seem even loftier. Clarice mimicked that posture, standing as straight and tall as her small stature could allow as she stood opposite of Hannibal Lecter.

"Good afternoon," he said.

"Good afternoon, Dr Lecter. I'm –"

"Miss Clarice Starling, Victim Specialist at the Baltimore Field Office of the FBI."

"Did Barney tell you I was coming?"

He shook his head. "I caught your fragrance when the guard unlocked the door of the stairwell. The same one that lingers on your letters, even though I'm sure you didn't realise it would. Amarige, is it not?"

"It is."

"It marries well with the chemistry of your skin. Sit. Please." He was as gracious as he might have been when hosting a dinner party. Despite her intuition reminding her that she should not feel anything towards him, Clarice let herself feel something close to pity as she sat in the old chair.

"My neighbour whispered something as you passed by, but I couldn't catch what he said."

"It doesn't bear repeating."

"It bothered you, Miss Starling, so I'd imagine that it doesn't. Still, what did he say?"

"He…" She shrugged. "He said he could smell my pretty pussy."

"Crass, even for Miggs."

"I've heard worse."

He narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, his nose rising to one of the air vents. "I cannot smell your… well, it doesn't bear repeating, as you said. But I can smell your perfume. The mint and rosemary shampoo you use to wash your hair, and…" He breathed deeply, opening his mouth as he inhaled the air. "Chanel lipstick. The colour is lovely on your mouth."

She raised a brow and reached into her bag, removing Jack's letter. "I have a message from Jack Crawford."

"Jack making someone else do his dirty work? I guess some things never change."

"When he gave me permission to see you, it was with the stipulation that I deliver some unpleasant news."

"What news do you have, Miss Starling? Please tell me. I get so little information here."

"There's no easy way to say this, but I'd rather you hear it from me than read it in the letter. Will Graham is dead."

His expression never changed, though his left eyebrow twitched briefly. "Is that all?"

"The details are in his letter if you want to read it."

"Pass it through."

She stood, smoothing her dress before walking to the food carrier that was Hannibal Lecter's only access to the outside world. It clanged loudly when she pushed it to his side. Dr Lecter took the letter and glanced at it. A typical person wouldn't have been able to gather as much information as he could with a single glance, but Clarice was beginning to understand that he was anything but ordinary.

"May I keep this?"

"It's yours, not mine," she said, taking her seat.

"In your line of work, you wouldn't normally deliver such news without a more personal approach. I'd imagine you sitting on a sofa with a family member, holding their hand in yours while you gently speak the words, then hugging them to your bosom as you both try not to fall apart."

She refused to answer, though she lifted her chin.

"You aren't going to respond?" he said, tutting. "It's a beautiful picture to hold, in my mind at least, and a compliment. Most people are appreciative of such social niceties."

"Dr Lecter, you know why I'm here. I've written twelve letters to you, and who knows how many Mrs Diehl has written. Where is Keith's body?"

He leaned against the wall, flicking an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. "I'm sure I wouldn't remember."

"His grandmother is dying. Melinda Diehl wants to bury her grandson. Please tell me." She hadn't meant to show emotion in front of him, but a small burst of sadness popped up, just enough to make her voice catch.

"Melinda… was that his grandmother's name?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm. He may have been attending an Ivy League school, but Keith Diehl was a petty thief when we first met. He picked my pocket while I was visiting New Jersey for a conference."

"What did you do with his body?"

"Why is it so important to you?"

Her molars started to grind, and she unclenched her jaw and stayed silent.

"You've been trained well, by Jack and Barney both."

"I know how to follow the rules."

"I'm sure your life is filled with them. So sad, to live a life surrounded by so many walls."

"This coming from a man who hasn't seen daylight since the Tooth Fairy tried to kill him."

"Oh no, my dear, you've got it all wrong. Will Graham tried to kill me. Tried to kill us both, after we slaughtered the Red Dragon together. Have you ever had the chance to be so close to death, yet feel so alive?"

It was his own trick, but Clarice used it to drive out his noise. She looked at him, but looked past him, into the secret pastures of her mind. She was so content there that she didn't notice the tell of discontent on his face, though her ears caught the wave of words that came after.

"Do you know what you look like as you sit across from me, so smug and confident in the rules you've been given? Such a waste. You've bred a backwoods upbringing from your voice with your fine education, but you aren't a generation out of the hills, are you? Is it the Tennessee Starlings or Arkie Starlings you descend from, those people who lived on the land and got nothing in return? Was your daddy a cattle rancher, or a poor farmer making ends meet while your mother applied for welfare? All the while, you had your dreams, dreams you kept safe with you as you let the boys plough into you in the back seats of their steamy cars. Big dreams of getting away from the dying land and leaving that trapped life, maybe even making it all the way to the FBI, where rules now dominate every moment of your waking day. I pity you, Miss Starling, and you'll have to do better if you want to find out how Mr Diehl lies."

Clarice snapped the band twice and stood. She neatly folded the chair and sat it against the wall, then picked up her bag and walked away without looking back. But in her carefully delivered exit, she forgot to stand close to the far wall. When she passed Miggs' cell, she heard his soft words, though she didn't understand their meaning until it was too late.

"I bit my wrist and bled the holiest water. Now I can baptise you in His name!"

Something wet fell on her cheek, and the smell of semen filled her nose. She gagged, trying not to vomit, though her primal instinct won over her mind's control. She vomited on the floor, her morning coffee and bagel splashing against her shoes. There was a buzzing noise, and the sound of yelling at the far end of the hall, though it wasn't as loud as the voice that was calling to her from the next cell.

"Miss Starling!"

The guards and nurses came to her aide, and someone handed her a towel before opening the barred door. In a daze, she walked backwards, heading back to Dr Lecter's cell. He was still calling to her and was now using her first name.

_"Clarice!"_

She turned to him, tears in her eyes as she hastily wiped her cheek. He was standing next to the glass, and so was she. The colour on his cheeks was hectic, and he was breathing fast when he placed a hand on the spot where her shoulder hovered.

"I've been rude to you, but not nearly as offensive as the cretin next door. What exactly would you do, to have the chance to find Mr Diehl?"

"Anything," she said. "For his grandmother, _anything_."

"Then look deep into yourself, Miss Starling, and into me. Find Miss Hester Mofet. M-O-F-E-T. When you do, come back and tell me what you think about the secrets we bury within ourselves."

"What are you talking about?" She couldn't control her breathing, and the world was starting to turn on her. She snapped the band on her wrist, trying to bring the now back into focus, but her mind was already too far gone.

"Clarice, are you okay?" Barney ran up to her, placing a hand on her waist.

"No." Her voice was small, covered up by Miggs' hysterical laughter.

"If you can't recognise an anxiety attack, you should send your degree back to the mail-order university you bought it from, Mr Matthews," Dr Lecter said.

Barney ignored him. "We should never have allowed you to come down here. Let's get you back upstairs."

"I'm ready to go," she whispered. But before she could step away, darkness swallowed her. She fainted, collapsing not into Barney's arms, but against the smooth, cool glass that lay between her and Hannibal Lecter.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarice came back to herself in Barney's office. She was laying on a couch off to the side, covered in a scratchy blanket that smelled like the basement. She sat up, then held her head in both hands when it started to pound.

"Another five minutes and I would have called for an ambulance." Barney was seated at his desk, pen in hand with a stack of charts in front of him.

"I didn't mean to cause a scene," she said.

"Miggs caused that scene, Clarice. Not you."

"May I have a glass of water?"

"There's one next to you on the coffee table."

She took the glass, sipping at first, then drinking it entirely. "This is embarrassing. I've been in rougher situations than that."

"I doubt it. And under the circumstances, I'd say you held on as well as anyone could be expected."

"Where are my bag and jacket?"

He pointed at the conference table, and she stood, fetching her belongings on unsteady legs.

"Did he tell you anything?"

"No. It was a waste of time, but at least I tried."

"You did well in handling him, Clarice. Even the best psychiatrists we've had have gotten seduced or scalded by his words, after the first meeting."

"That's why you rotate them."

"Taking a break can provide needed perspective."

"Truth," she said, pulling on her jacket. "Thank you for dragging me back up."

"Any time." He stood, moving next to her. "Miss Starling, would you let me take you to dinner tonight? Perhaps as a way of apologizing for Miggs?"

"I…" Clarice frowned and shook her head as she tried to think of an excuse. "I can't. I've got to write a report about what happened. Mr Crawford will want it first thing tomorrow."

"What about tomorrow night?" He looked hopeful, like a pound puppy watching customers stroll through a pet store.

"If you could promise it would only be dinner, I would."

"I can't promise that."

"Then, no. I don't date."

"What do you do, Clarice?"

"I read," she said. "A lot. Lots of books. Really _big_ books."

There was a burst of laughter from outside the door, and Barney rushed past her. "John? Aren't you supposed to be working on my filing?"

" _Yes_ ," the man laughed.

"Would you like to lose this position and enjoy the privacy of your room?"

The laughter stopped. "No, Mr Matthews."

"Then get back to work." Barney closed the door and leaned against it. "Sorry. John can be a little nosy."

"Then you better be careful."

"I'm very careful, Clarice. That's why you should go to dinner with me."

"No. Thank you, though, for the offer. But I better get going."

"May I walk you to your car?"

"I'm fine," she lied and slipped around him. When she opened the door, John was leaning against it with his hands cupped around his ear.

" _Go_ ," she whispered. He jumped and ran to his chair.

"Is he—"

"Right here. See?" John lifted a stack of papers, pages sliding through his fingers and onto the floor.

"Clean up that mess and see that those are in order by the end of the day tomorrow. Wait, Clarice –"

"Bye, Mr Matthews," she said.

The warm afternoon had shifted to a cool evening, and Clarice buttoned her jacket as she walked to her car. The red Mustang stood out among the sea of cars that were muted by the setting sun. For a moment, she was taken back to a little farm in Tennessee, and of the bright red toy car that had been her favourite. She and her sister often fought over it, with Maureen calling dibs because she was the oldest. The last night of Maureen's life had been cool, like this one, and when Clarice closed her eyes, she could almost smell the coppery scent of the blood that had permeated throughout their farmhouse by the time she got home from the Wednesday night church activities.

 _Snap. Snap. Snap._

She opened her eyes, and she was back in Baltimore, her fingers tugging at the band around her wrist. It wasn't the best solution to triggering thoughts and emotions, but it was the one that worked the best for her. Tossing her bag in the passenger seat, she got behind the wheel and started the engine. Even though she'd been told not to look back, she glanced at the brick building and wondered if she would ever have to return. What was it that Dr Lecter had said? She decided not to think about it until she was in front of a computer and turned on the radio instead, clearing her mind as the sound of Blue Öyster Cult filtered through the speakers.

_"Big city madness, comfort my soul  
_ _Give me a home where I can grow…"_

* * *

A week passed before Jack Crawford summoned her to his office at Quantico. She thought that maybe he had forgotten about the incident or played it off as a mistake on both their parts. But when she walked through his office door and took a cup of coffee prepared exactly how she liked it, she realized that neither was the case.

"Are you better?"

"I am, thank you."

"That was a horrible thing to have happened to you."

She shrugged. "I'm a big girl, in all interpretations of that statement. It brought on an anxiety attack. I'm no stranger to them. I'm fine now."

"I read through your personnel file, Miss Starling. It must have brought back memories of the worst kind."

"Let's not talk about those things," she murmured and sat in the chair across from him.

"What Dr Lecter said to you…"

"I know. They don't make sense. He never admitted to hiding the body."

"He never has," Jack said. "Not even in court. His victims were always on display, a masterpiece of his own mind for everyone to see. There were only two that he didn't… show off. One has never been found, and the other was alive and brainwashed."

"Miriam Lass."

"My trainee," he said.

"What happened to her?"

"She went back home after she shot Dr Chilton. I call her twice a month. She lives with her mother and doesn't leave the house anymore."

"That's terrible."

"It's the only way she can cope."

Clarice stared at her coffee; her reflection murky in the milky liquid. "Do you think he's alive somewhere, after all these years?"

"I think he might be, though I hope he fared better than Miriam. My team looked into Miss Mofet, but I couldn't find anything in the public records."

"I looked too, with even less success. What about the 'yourself' reference? 'Look deep into yourself?' It sounded hokey, for Lecter."

"He also mentioned that he met Keith in New Jersey, but Keith had finished school and moved to Baltimore when he went missing."

Clarice closed her eyes, trying to go through the visual Rolodex she kept in her mind of the people she had met and places she had been. But she found nothing until she saw the flashes of the images she passed on her drive home from work.

"There's a Ur-Self Storage facility in Baltimore, not far from where I live."

"I wonder if someone named Miss Mofet has a unit there."

"Could be."

"Do you want to go on a field trip, Miss Starling?"

She almost choked on her coffee. "No. After last time – no. I think I'm done leaving the office unless I'm going to help a victim or their family."

"But you would be if this pans out."

"I'm not an agent, sir. I don't belong out there."

"You could have been an agent if—"

"If I was fit enough to be one. I could have been a lot of things if I'd finished my PhD, if I had gone to medical school. _If, if, if_ ," she said. "I'm a Victim's Specialist. I have a job I love, an apartment I love, and a cat I love. I don't need anything else."

"Fair enough," Jack said. "If we find anything, do you want me to fill you in?"

"If it helps us find Keith, yes."

"I have something for you," he said. "Dr Lecter sent it to me with a letter admonishing me for not telling him that Will died myself."

"He wasn't too thrilled about that."

"Do you want what he sent?"

"No… yes. _Yes_ ," she said.

Jack opened his desk drawer and pulled out an item that looked like a card. There was a perfect sketch of azalea blossoms on the front, not unlike the flowers that had been on her dress that day. She sat down her coffee and opened it.

_Miss Starling,_

_I took great care with the removal of my neighbour, in the event that you would like to visit me again._

_Ta,_

_Hannibal Lecter, MD_

_PS – Your unwelcomed suitor has also been admonished for his nefarious intentions._

"What did he do, Mr Crawford?"

"The nurses overheard Lecter whispering to Miggs all night, after your visit. By bed check, Miggs was dead."

"How did he die?"

"Do you really want to know, Miss Starling?"

"Call me Clarice. And… yes."

"He fashioned a shiv from a slat in his bed and cut off his genitals. Then he choked on them before he could bleed out."

" _Shit_." She stood, the card dropping to the floor in front of her, and walked to the window, staring outside.

"If you're going to curse in front of a department head, you might as well call me Jack."

"I don't know what to feel about this, Jack."

"Don't think about it too hard. You don't have to feel anything. Lecter did it to amuse himself. It's what he's good at."

"I doubt it, or else he'd have killed Miggs before I ever got there. What was it about me that set him off?"

"I don't know, Clarice."

She took a breath. "I want to go back."

"No. That's out of the question."

She nodded but refused to look at him when he placed a hand on her back.

"I'm sure it would amuse him even more, to know that he rattled you."

"I'm not rattled. I'm just… Well, maybe I am a little shook up. This whole thing makes me angry. All the death. The secrets. The lies and half-truths. It's why I got into my field – there's more truth there than in the office with a patient. It's raw, but it's real."

"This is real too, Clarice. It's the more difficult side of human nature to accept, but it doesn't make it any less real, or valid. Given what happened to you, I'd imagined that you'd understand that truth better than most people."

"I still don't have to like it."

"No, you don't. But you have to accept it, in some form."

She looked at him then. The stony expression on his face did not move, though his eyes softened slightly. "Will you tell me if you find something in the storage facility?"

"You'll be at the top of my list."

"Thank you, Mr Crawford. You've been very generous with your time."

"You're very welcome."

Clarice picked up her bag and looked at the note on the floor. She picked it up intending to throw it in the trash, then sighed and took it with her. The traffic back to Baltimore was light, and she had enough time to go to her office before the end of the day. She had two families to check on, as well as three victims, and she made those calls with success before the enormity of Miggs' death fell across her mind.

It was such a waste, on all counts.

She stared at her laptop, wanting to write a typed response without including her signature, but that format seemed too impersonal now. Her printer was full of paper for a change, but she scratched through ten sheets before she could find the right thing to write.

_Dr Lecter,_

_There is innocence, even in the dark places like the one you dwell in. You stole some of mine when you coerced Miggs into taking his own life. That action was more foul than the semen that clung to my face. It won't make me come back, even if the choice to return was mine alone._

_I won't trouble you with another letter, begging you to tell the truth. Melinda is content to pass from this world, knowing that some secrets will never be told._

_Sincerely,_

_Clarice Starling, MS_

Her handwriting was still the standard cursive she learned in grade school, though loosened from the loopy curls of girlhood. Before she could overthink it, she stuffed the paper into an envelope and addressed it. The post office was on her way home, and she dropped it in the blue, metal box with no afterthought.

Her little apartment was cold when she walked inside, and she kicked the radiator a few times before it turned on. The old tomcat on the windowsill didn't even flinch with the noise; he was used to it by now.

"Hey, Kilroy," she said. "You hungry?"

The orange beast seemed to nod, and she pulled out a can of food. The cat was by her side in a flash of fur, scenting her legs as she opened the can. She left him in the kitchen, taking a bottle of Scotch and glass with her as she sat on the sofa.

When she woke during the night, hearing the screams echo over the dull fog the alcohol had given her, she was in the same position, though her glass had fallen from her hand.

"Great," she muttered, cleaning up the mess before she walked to her bedroom. She removed her suit, not looking at a mirror as she did not want to see the scar on her arm. When her nightshirt was in place, she finally glanced at herself, pulling her hair in a loose knot before she climbed into her bed, covering herself with her grandmother's old quilt.

The old cat tucked himself against her back and purred. He always stayed awake long enough to make sure she was asleep, though he knew to move on before the dreaming started back up. Then he removed himself to his own dark places until morning came.


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday was Clarice's day to herself, and she normally didn't leave her apartment, nor did she leave the comfort of her pyjama's. It wasn't necessarily a symptom of the depression that waxed and waned, though it may have been if left uncontrolled. It was more of a simple remembrance: her grandmother had always celebrated Saturday as the one day of the week that gave her nothing to do but be at rest. Clarice had continued that tradition and was currently on her sofa, reading a tattered copy of _The Stranger_. The telephone was an unwelcome intrusion, and she ignored it. But when her work phone rang next, the number belonging to Jack Crawford, she answered it.

"Starling."

"I hope I'm not interrupting your day off."

"It's not a problem."

"We found something in the very centre of the storage facility. Miss Hester Mofet does indeed have a unit here, paid in advance for twenty years."

"What's in there?"

"It would be better if you just came and looked. You aren't far, are you?"

"Just a few blocks, but –"

"Clarice, you know more about this kid better than anyone, and you know the family. I need you here."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

She hung up the phone and tossed her book on the coffee table. Instead of the dresses and jackets she normally wore to the office, she donned a black suit, one she had purchased when she still thought she might be accepted at the FBI Academy, but paired it with a silk blouse instead of the stiff, white shirt that hung next to it. The red fabric made her look like herself, even if the suit caged her in even more than she already was.

"Be sweet," she said to Kilroy. The cat blinked at her when she shut the door and jumped on the kitchen counter, one of the little joys of her absence that he kept to

* * *

The facility was ancient and run down. Clarice parked close to the fence outside, behind a line of unmarked sedans that would belong to the club of agents already inside. There was an agent at the gate, checking people in and out. She showed him her badge, and he frowned at it.

"You aren't with the BAU."

"I work here in Baltimore. Mr Crawford invited me."

He nodded and put his phone to his ear. "Jack? I have a Clarice Star… oh. Okay, sorry." He motioned for her to go in.

She felt like she was walking through a maze. Row after row of units curled into each other, until she felt dizzy from the endless symmetry of identical doors. Closing her eyes, she listened for the excited voices, the rushed footfalls of agents, and followed the sounds until she saw the heavy door that was pried open by large wench.

"Starling?"

Her head turned when she heard Jack say her name. He was speaking to a few young agents and waved for her to join them.

"If you find any more of these, I want you to contact me immediately."

"Yes, sir."

The pair walked back into the unit, leaving them alone. "Thank you for coming, Clarice."

"I don't know if I'm happy to be here or not. What did you find?"

"A lot. Mr Diehl wasn't the sweet boy his grandmother remembers so fondly. Are you ready for this?"

"I don't know," she said, but followed him anyway, ducking her head below the partially opened door. _"Ouch!"_

"You alright?"

"It's nothing," Clarice said, rubbing the back of her neck. "I think a nail scratched me."

"Do you need a bandage?"

She shook her head and looked around. Floodlamps filled the room with bright, artificial light. Decaying boxes cluttered the area, along with dusty mannequins. An older model car was parked in the back.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes. It's Keith Diehl's car."

"Nothing was missing from his apartment."

"Nothing he didn't want people to know about. This is the rest of him. Miss Hester Mofet is an anagram, Clarice. 'Miss the rest of me'."

She took a pair of gloves and opened one of the boxes. Mouldering smut magazines lay inside, the kind that featured women and men tied up and gagged on the cover. Clarice's upper lip retracted with distaste, and she moved on to the next one. "A bunch of dirty magazines? He was brought up in a strict home. I wouldn't want my grandmother to know if I liked that stuff either."

"It gets progressively worse. There are boxes with bones, close to the back."

Her mouth went dry. "Human?"

"Looks like small animals. But Agent Zellar found a human head in the trunk of his car, preserved in formaldehyde."

"I need to sit down," Clarice said. She looked around, seeing little else than the stacks of packing boxes. The scent of mould was heavy in her nose, the smell of blood lingering somewhere beyond it.

"Fresh air?"

"And a stiff drink."

She walked outside with Jack following her, this time more mindful of the rusty nail. She breathed in the fresh, clean air as a sprinkle of rain fell on her cheeks.

"Everyone has secrets, Clarice."

"Not many carry the secret that they are a killer."

"No… and even fewer seek out mentors."

She turned to look at Jack. He placed an old felt hat on his head, making him look like an agent from days long gone. But it somehow was appropriate for this man who had been a pioneer at the Bureau, and it made her like him even more.

"There was a box of human skin in the backseat of his car. Tanned skin, like leather. One of the pieces had a tattoo on it that reminded me of one that was on the missing leg of one of Dr Lecter's victims."

"Lecter was… teaching him?"

"I think they were teaching each other. Perhaps Will wasn't the first fledgeling killer that he wanted to take under his wing."

"He knows exactly where he is, doesn't he?"

"I think he might. He sent me a note, delivered here from Barney Matthews. He wants to talk. And he wants to talk to you."

"He wants to use me as a pawn."

"Don't let him, Clarice. You don't want Hannibal Lecter in your head. Nothing good will ever come of it."

"What if he's already there?" she whispered. The note he sent her was sitting on her kitchen table, propped against a vase of azalea blossoms she'd picked from a neighbouring apartment complex. It had brightened the room, much to her dismay.

"You know how to set up boundaries between you and your patients. That's all he is – another mentally ill person, but more dangerous than anyone you have ever encountered. Relax your conversation if you need to, but don't tell him anything he may be able to use to work his way into your mind."

"When do I go?"

"Now. Mr Matthews is waiting for you, at the hospital."

* * *

"I wanted to apologise."

"For what?"

"For my… advances," Barney said. He was rushing down the stairs in front of her, and she almost tripped trying to keep up with him. Her shoes were slick; it had started to pour when she left Ur-Self, and she hadn't thought to keep an umbrella in her car. Her hair was drenched, thrown back in a sloppy knot on top of her head.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not."

"Do you have any idea what he wants from you and Jack Crawford?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Miss Starling, I'm not a turnkey. Lecter is my patient and my ward. If he's up to something, I should be kept in the loop." He stopped at the bottom level and knocked before opening the door.

"If you have any questions, then Special Agent Jack Crawford should be your Point of Contact at the Bureau."

"Hmmm. I don't like this. Not one bit."

"I don't like it either, truthfully. But this is my job, and I have to do what my superiors ask me."

"Do you want me to wait for you?"

"No. I'll call for help if I need it." She glanced at the nurse's station. Even at night, the amount of staff did not change, and they sat with a pot of coffee, watching the monitors.

"See that you do." He turned back to the stairwell and unlocked it, slamming the door behind him.

"Don't mind Mr Matthews," the guard said. "He's just embarrassed. John let it slip that you turned him down."

"That was rude."

"Not as rude as what Dr Lecter said to him when word travelled down here."

"What did he say?"

"That he needed to find a woman of less intelligence, who might put up with his pathetic delusions of grandeur."

"Pretty talk."

The gate buzzed when it opened, and Clarice looked back at the guard. "He's expecting you, Agent Starling."

"I'm not an agent, just a mere Miss."

"All the same, he's had a long couple of days."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see." The gate closed, buzzing behind her until it was in place. Heavy electronic locks slammed into their casings.

There was no jeering, this time. The patients were either sleeping or simply stared at her when she walked past. Miggs' room was still empty. A large, old fashioned television sat beyond Lecter's cell, the kind that her grade school teachers would have rolled in when they needed to watch a program. A minister was on the television, though his voice was muted. The room and hall were dark, casting dark shadows where the low emergency lights were positioned.

"Dr Lecter?"

There was no answer, though when she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the sharp intake of his breath. She could see the outline of his shoe, as though he was sitting against the far wall. Thinking quick, she arranged herself on the ground next to the glass, as difficult as it was to manage the action in a skirt.

"Jack's team found the storage unit. They are still going through it. There was a lot to take in."

There was no answer.

"I left about thirty minutes ago. It was a lot for me to take in, too."

There was a shift beyond the glass; silent movement disturbing the air. Clarice shivered, more from her rain-soaked hair than anything else. It was chilly down here; the air was completely dry, like the fruit cellar back home.

"Was Keith your first… partner? Accomplice? Friend. He tried to pick your pocket in New Jersey, but he found something more than your wallet. Didn't he?"

The carrier creaked above her, gently sliding instead of slamming through. She sat on her knees and looked inside. A thin white towel lay within, neatly folded. She stared at it before taking it, deciding a simple courtesy such as this one should not be ignored.

"Thank you," she said. She rubbed the towel along her wet neck, dabbing the water that collected around her collar, before moving up to her hair.

"You were bleeding."

"How did… never mind. I scratched myself on a nail. The door was stuck; they had to use a wench."

"Is your tetanus booster up to date?"

"I'd have to check with my doctor, but I'd imagine that it is. She takes the time to notice those things," she said, moving the towel over her chest. Even though she'd buttoned her jacket, her thin blouse was stuck to her skin, and there was no saving it.

"Is it raining outside?" His voice was thin, as though he was tasting the air as he spoke.

"Yes."

"Spring rain. It must have felt warm against your skin."

"I suppose it did."

"When was the last time you walked through the spring rain, Miss Starling, before this evening?"

"I can't recall."

"Yes, you can. Everyone remembers beauty, and there's nothing as beautiful as that first shower of the year, warming you from winter's long chill."

"I never thought of it that way."

"Tell me about the last time. You tell me things, and I'll tell you things. Quid pro quo."

She closed her eyes and pulled the memory. She and Maureen, out in the orchard. She was small and round, Maureen tall and gangling, but so achingly pretty. "I guess when my sister and I went out to the orchard on our family's farm outside of Gatlinburg. My mother wanted us to check for blossoms, but she was probably trying to get rid of us for an hour while she finished the laundry."

"What grew in that orchard?"

"Apples and pears, mostly apples. We had blackberries and strawberries too, though there wasn't enough crop to make real money off those. It started to rain when we were walking around, and instead of running to the house, we took shelter under one of the trees. Maureen told me ghost stories until it let up. Mom pulled some warm towels from the dryer when we returned, fed us hot vegetable soup and cornbread for supper."

"How old were you?"

"Nine? Maureen would have been fifteen."

"How old is she now?"

"She isn't. She… she stopped living when she was sixteen."

The lights turned on in his cell. Dr Lecter was sitting in front of her on the floor, his back reclining against the wall. It had been so dark that she hadn't noticed that he was so close. One of the vents sat between them, a small gate of its own carved into the glass.

"Thank you, Bobby."

"What's with the TV?"

"Barney's way to amuse himself, even though he'd never remove my toilet or sketches like Dr Bloom did. If I misbehave, he turns off my lights and rolls this out. It will be tuned to the local religious station at max volume for a few weeks, just to drown out the hell he believes is within this room. Just enough for punishment, though not cruel enough to disrupt his carefully kept order. Do you believe in hell, Miss Starling?"

"Not really," she said.

"But you believe in God."

"Yes."

"If God reigns over heaven, then there is a hell where a devil awaits. A balance between our worlds. Rules, as it were, and we both know how much you like those."

"Then stick to yours. Quid pro quo. Where is Keith Diehl?"

He shrugged. "He stopped writing when I was captured from Will Graham's farmhouse."

"You turned yourself in."

"A matter of semantics. But I can help you find him if you really want to discover what he has become."

"The head in his trunk… did he kill him, or did you?"

"We killed him together before Keith had a good mind to strike out on his own. But it wasn't death he was interested in. He was more fascinated at what he could do with the skins of my victims. Easy enough to cover up, considering my own fascination with their meat."

She shuddered and leaned against the wall. It was cool against her head, and she closed her eyes for a moment, just long enough to let her guard down.

"I'm surprised Jack let you return, considering what happened to Will. He's about to offer you a job, officially add you to his team. He must like you."

"I wouldn't know."

"Do you think he imagines scenarios between the two of you, his face cushioned against your ample bosom as you deliver the bad news that fills his life? He's much older than you, more than twice your tender age. Still a virile man, yet frustrated, and his Bella has been dead a long time."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"I bet it crossed Jack's. Almost as often as the thought of fucking you."

She huffed out a breath, covering the reflexive gag that rose in her throat when she heard that word. "That doesn't interest me, Doctor. It sounds like something your neighbour might have said."

"Not anymore."

"Did you suggest that he mutilate himself and eat his…" She swallowed her disgust and snapped the band on her wrist twice.

"You can't even say the word, can you?"

"I don't want to say it."

"You would if you wanted to. But you can't. I wonder why that is."

"Maybe I was brought up better than that."

"No, you weren't. Your moral argument is on the same high ground as the hills you grew up in, and with the same amount of haze that covers them. You're hiding something."

"So are you."

"I hide very little if one knows where to look. You say you don't know if Jack likes you. Do you know why I do?"

"Tell me."

"Do you think it's because I want to eat you? Discover how you would taste, warm and soft and lush against my tongue?"

The words made her skin crawl, a mixture of distaste and long-buried arousal. Shame crept through her, as it always did, and her voice rose with anger. "Is that it? Am I just a piece of meat?"

"Far from it, Miss Starling. And I've offended you, yet again. But you can help me if I help you. Convince Jack to give me the things that are missing from my life. I'd like to feel the spring rain, have access to a window. Take a shower instead of sponging off in the sink like a barbarian. I want to reside in a federal facility; leave Baltimore, and never return."

"Have your attorney put in the request. I'm not your intercessor."

"Aren't you? It's what you do. You advocate for victims and their families. One could argue that I've become a victim, placed so low in this basement and given so few rights. My attorneys and the courts are aligned against me, but Jack could give my dignity back to me if you asked."

"You're a victim of your own insanity, and whenever someone gives you an inch, you take a mile. I won't have that guilt added to my heart."

He looked at her, his eyes catching the light. It made them glitter, maroon glints sparkling with excitement. "What other guilt do you carry? Tell me, please. I'm dying to know."

"No," she said, carefully standing. He stood with her, though he had to look down at her on the other side of the glass. "Thank you for the towel. Should I give it to the guards?"

"I only get the one every few days. Please return it to me. I'll dry it out."

She placed it in the carrier and passed it to him before walking to the wall opposite from the glass. Leaning against it, she regarded him again, so large yet so small in his confinement. "What do you want from me, Dr Lecter?"

"You accused me of stealing some of your innocence, even though I simply ridded the world of an odious lunatic who ejaculated his semen onto you. Who else has stolen your innocence, Miss Starling?"

"No one."

"That's the first lie you've told me. All liars will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulphur. This is the second death."

"John included murders in that statement."

"He did indeed, during his exile after being boiled in oil by the Romans. I'd imagine that experience to be his own form of hell. You were wise to request an audience with me. We could learn a lot from each other if you would dare to tell me the truth."

"There's nothing I want to learn from you."

"Isn't there?" he said, winking at her when she flinched. "Keith Diehl lives in a two-story house, with a basement of his own. Who knows what other secrets he keeps down there, buried with the rest of his lies."

She frowned and picked up her bag.

"Thank you for your letter. Your handwriting has a certain charm, in its own way. Frozen in time, much like your dead sister."

"And yours," she said evenly. "Goodbye, Dr Lecter."

 _"Clarice…"_

She refused to look back, even when he spoke her name, and this time she remembered to hug the wall. Her pace quickened, the clack of her heels almost telling of a run by the time she reached the gate.


	4. Chapter 4

"I want some time off."

"Is everything okay?" John Brigham looked at her from over his glasses, his tell that something had captured his interest.

"This business Jack Crawford has drawn me into… I need some time to think."

"Have you told Keith's family what they found?"

Clarice shook her head. "For all we know, it could be Dr Lecter playing another game. If something real comes of it, I'll fly to New Jersey and visit his grandmother myself."

"How much time do you need?"

"A week. I've got a ton of use it or lose it hours, and I'm ready to use them."

"Then take them," John said. "I can't remember the last time you took a day off. You even work most holidays, when the rest of us are home with our families. I'll take your cases myself until you get back. Just keep your phone on, if something comes up."

"Thank you, sir."

"Starling, if you need more time, just call me."

"I will." She stood and excused herself.

"Where are you going?"

"Tennessee. I haven't visited the farm in a while. Kilroy will get a chance to visit his cousins."

"Long drive with a cat in the backseat."

"He's done it before."

"Travelling mercies, Starling."

She nodded and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Her work phone rang on the drive out, just as she passed the Tennessee state line. She glanced at it and almost chucked the phone out the window. But she answered it all the same, as she said she would when she left the office yesterday and tucked a Bluetooth in her ear.

"Starling."

"Where are you?" Jack Crawford asked.

"I'm on personal leave."

"I need you back at Quantico. Dr Lecter has –"

"He's not my supervisor, sir. Neither are you, for that matter. I have the time; I'm taking my time. I need to take that time."

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing that wasn't true. Enough to let me know that I need a break."

"When will you be back?"

"In a week. Maybe two."

"This is important."

"So is my mental health. So was Will Graham's, but he never got a break, did he?"

A beat. "That was a low blow, Clarice."

"I'm sorry," she said, pulling over to the side of the interstate. "Jack, I need to recalibrate. Dr Lecter could see right through me. I didn't like it. I don't like it. I need to set my mind back in order."

"Do you have someone to talk to?"

"Yes," she said, the lie rolling off her tongue as easily as the truth.

"Then I'll see you in a week or two."

"I'll be back. Baltimore is home, more than the farm."

"I'd like you to make Quantico your home when you return."

She inhaled a breath, ignoring the yowling cat in the backseat. "No."

"Will you think about it?"

"The answer will still be no if it means I'd have to carry a gun. What does Lecter want?"

"He doesn't want anything, not anymore. It won't be much of a change from his current conditions, but he's being transferred tomorrow, to the Colorado supermax."

"In Florence," she said softly. "How did he manage that?"

"He gave me the name that Keith used in his last correspondence, Louis Friend, along with an address in Calumet City, Illinois. He even drew up a psychological profile. We checked the address; he's been gone for a while, but it's a start."

"Did you meet with Dr Lecter yourself?"

"Yes."

"How was he?"

"Same as he always is, Clarice. Cunning to the core of his being."

"Thank you for calling me."

"I told you I would. He was very complimentary about you during our conversation. Will this phone be on, at the farm?"

"Yes."

"Keep it close. I won't sleep until the bars lock on his new cell. You shouldn't either. The last time he left the hospital, he escaped. He only got recaptured because both his legs were broken, and an arm. Seven men died that day, not including Francis Dolarhyde."

"Let me know when it's over."

"It'll never be over, Clarice. Not until someone decides he's sane. I'll let you get back to your drive. It sounds like your cat is dying."

"He'd like to think he is," she said, peaking at the back seat. "Bye, Jack."

"I'll see you in Quantico, Clarice. Soon."

She pulled back onto the interstate. The motion lulled Kilroy, just enough for him to start purring again. It was never travelling he minded, more the frequent stops on the way. Clarice couldn't blame him and flipped through the radio station until she found a song that fitted her mood.

_"I don't care what you say anymore this is my life,  
_ _Go ahead with your own life leave me alone..."_

* * *

Clarice stood in front of the house she grew up in, the one she later shared with her grandmother, in the after.

"Nothing ever changes, does it?"

"It shouldn't. Not out here." Ardelia Mapp, her childhood best friend and now the manager of Starling's Orchard, stood next to her, though she was careful to maintain Clarice's personal space. "It's good to have you home."

"Is the house clean?"

"I did it myself."

"You didn't have to go to that much trouble."

"My oldest friend is back home. I would go to all the trouble, for one of your visits. It's not the same as talking on the phone."

"It's not, is it?" Clarice picked up her bags and walked up the porch stairs. "I wish you would just move in here. Your kids would love to have you so close by."

"Meh. We're happy in the house down the road. It's good to have a little space away from work."

"That's why I'm here," she said, opening the door. The scent of apple cobbler filled the air, covering the bad memories that awaited her upstairs. "Did you cook for me? I could kiss you, Ardelia."

"Cobbler is in the oven, and there's a pot of chicken and dumplings on the stove."

Clarice did kiss her then, grazing her cheek with her lips. It was one of the few shows of affection she ever gave anyone. "You're a peach."

"And we'll have peaches this year if the trees decide to cooperate."

"You're going to let me give you this place, one of these days."

"Nah. I'll just continue taking the money that should be yours."

"You're the only person who ever made anything from the land. It's yours. Everything is yours if you want it."

"Do you mean it?"

Clarice nodded. "I'll type up a paper and make it legal while I'm here."

"Baby girl, you… you really are something. But I don't want the house. I know you don't like to talk about it, but this place really is haunted."

"Houses aren't haunted, Dee. People are."

"All the same, keep it. Maybe it'll give you the incentive to visit more often."

They sat at the kitchen table, which was covered with a fresh white tablecloth. A vase with cherry blossoms from the tree outside sat in the centre, along with a letter addressed to Clarice in ornate handwriting.

"What's that?"

"Got me. It was in the mailbox this morning. You hungry?"

"Starving," she said, expecting Kilroy to twine around her legs. "Crap. Roy is still in the car."

"You better go get him, or he's gonna be pissed at you."

"He already is," Clarice said. She sped through the house, unlocking the car when she got outside. It was a stupid habit, as far out as they were, but one she probably shouldn't break while she was here.

"Can I help you, miss?"

Clarice turned. A man, maybe a few years older than she was, was standing close to the house. His hair was bright red, brighter than hers, his eyes a curious shade of hazel.

"I'm Clarice Starling. This is my place. Well, it'll be Ardelia's place soon, if she'll finally let me give it to her. Who are you?"

"I see you met Tom Fornegte." Ardelia stood at the door. "He's my assistant."

"Pleased to meet you, Tom."

"Likewise," he said. "So, you're the famous Clarice."

She felt the blood drain from her face and looked at the Vans on her feet.

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant… Ardelia talks about you all the time is all." He scratched the back of his head. "Can we start over?"

She nodded and lifted her head. He had a nice smile, big and cheerful, even if a little lopsided. Returning it was easy, and she took a breath before snapping her band three times.

"It's fine," she said. She lugged Kilroy's carrier out of the backseat and opened it. "Roam free, my man."

The cat sniffed her, then seemed to remember where he was and sprinted to the barn.

"Come back for dinner!"

"There are more than enough mice out there. He'll be even fatter when you leave."

"Lord help us all," she giggled. She caught Tom staring at her, but he turned his head quickly. "Are you hungry, Tom?"

"Yep."

"Ardelia made supper, and I'm sure there is enough to go around for a few nights."

"There might be," Ardelia agreed.

"I'd love to stay and eat," he said.

"What about your kids?"

"Jimmy took them to his mom's. They won't be back until late."

"Then let's dive into that pot of dumplings, shall we?"

When everyone was gone, Clarice looked at the stairs. She didn't have to go up there if she didn't want to; the master bed and bath were on the ground floor.

"Not tonight," she said. "Maybe not ever, but not tonight."

She walked into the kitchen, set on having a glass of milk before bed. The envelope now lay next to the sink, and she picked it up, giving it a closer look.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," she said. It was Dr Lecter's handwriting. She hesitated before opening it, but only briefly.

_Miss Clarice Starling, MS (ABD),_

_If you find this letter in the mailbox of your childhood home, I have only one request to make of you._

_Run. And don't look back._

_Hannibal Lecter, PsyD, MD_

She lit a fire in the fireplace, making a mess of it before the logs finally caught the flame. The letter she used as kindling hadn't been an effective starter, after all.

Ardelia checked in on her before breakfast. Clarice was sprawled on her grandmother's double bed, reading _Jane Eyre_ at her leisure.

"How old is that thing?"

Clarice looked at the cover and shrugged. "It was Moms. Probably older you."

"I'm only six months older than you are."

"Older than Maureen, then."

Ardelia sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the pattern that Charity Starling had so lovingly sewn into the bedspread. "Are you going to see your dad while you're here?"

"I'd thought about it."

"How long has it been?"

"Ten years. I checked, he's still at FCI in Memphis."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. Some things you have to do yourself, Dee. Seeing him is one of them."

"You've been doing a lot of things all by yourself. I worry about you."

"Don't. I'm as well as I'm going to be," she said, curling her legs up to her chest. "I stay busy. I help people like I was helped when I needed it."

"You still need it, honey."

"Sometimes, I do. I need it now. It's why I came home."

Ardelia reached out, then hesitated. "Can I hug you?"

"I still don't like being touched."

"Then can I sit next to you?"

Clarice nodded and scooted over in the bed. Ardelia sat stiffly for a minute before Clarice leaned her head on her shoulder.

"Just like old times."

"Except your grandmother isn't yelling at us to quit giggling."

"She never yelled, she just –"

"Talked loud enough for the neighbours to hear?"

Clarice giggled.

"When will you go see him?"

"Tomorrow, I guess," she sighed. "I want to get it out of the way. Maybe he'll be dead a few years from now, and I don't have to bother."

"Always on her birthday."

"It's fitting. She died the day she was born. I might have too if I had been home."

"I doubt it. She loved you without reason, enough to try to kill him to keep you safe."

"I hate this house."

"Burn it."

"But I love this house, too. It's where her memory is."

"Then keep it."

"I will," Clarice said. She passed Ardelia the handwritten paper, signing over the deeds to the orchards and almost all the adjacent property. "Sign it. The house is mine, but everything else is yours."

Ardelia wiped her eyes. "This feels like a divorce."

"More like a marriage. This land was yours the second you saw the orchard and hugged that old, dying tree. You brought the life back to it, back into everything. What was mine became yours. And I'm glad for you to have it."

"Shit, Clarice. Stop it with your college talk."

"Just sign it. I'll have it notarized."

"I'll do that myself," she said, putting the paper in her back pocket. "I don't want you welshing on our deal."

"My mother's family was Welsh," Clarice giggled.

"Huh?"

"Nothing, just funny turns of phrase."

"What will you do today?"

"I don't know," Clarice said, lifting her head and looking out the window. "I thought I might walk around, check for the early blossoms."

"It's a good day for it. It's supposed to rain by the end of the week; big front rolling in from the Rockies."

Clarice leaned against Ardelia again. She smelled like the fresh air outside and of the powder she used on her baby this morning. It was comforting, and she felt herself start to doze. Ardelia stayed with her, even when the dreams started up. Damned if she was going to run on her like the stupid cat always did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's be frank.
> 
> This is a fix-it fic to insert Clarice in the series storyline. As you do.
> 
> But I'm realizing this is a fix-it fic for me. I tend to write when I've got stuff on my mind - those big thinky thoughts I can't work out by myself and that my therapist can't pull out of me. A few weeks ago, I was having a big conversation with my mother about my fears of raising my kids in a world where children are bought and sold like cattle. In turn, my mother broke down. I've never seen her cry before, not even at her parent's funerals. Not even at my dad's. She told me about what life was really like for her in the rural South in the 40s and 50s. The secrets and lies and conspiracy of abuse against children.
> 
> I wept with her. And I got all kinds of twisted up inside. 
> 
> This is the only way I can process it, along with my own thoughts and experiences. I don't show much emotion; our bunch is stoic to the core. But I can write. And sometimes I do it with tears on my face.
> 
> If you want to stop reading now, I won't be offended. I'm not going to be graphic, definitely not going to describe the abuse, and the warnings are in the tags. But I am going to explore what it's like for the witnesses. The ones who didn't tell what they saw and still live in shame for not speaking up. People like my mom.

It couldn't have been a more perfect day. Clarice walked the grounds, wearing a sleeveless shirt and letting the breeze float around her bared skin. She found an old tree marked with a pair of familiar initials and sat underneath it, remembering the last story her sister told her that spring day, barely a week before her death.

_"Once upon a time, there was a big bad man. People thought he was a good person because he was kind whenever he left his house in the woods. But he kept all his secrets hidden inside."_

_"What did he do?"_

_"He hunted little girls and cut them up, and then he fed them to his dogs for dinner," Maureen whispered, pretending to jab Clarice's belly._

_"Why did he do that?" Clarice asked, hiding her face._

_"Because he was evil, and he hated things that made other people happy."_

_"Did someone catch him?"_

_"Nope. He's still out there. Sometimes he hunts for us in our orchard, waiting for us to walk by. THERE HE IS!"_

_Clarice screamed and hid behind Maureen. "Stop it, sissy! That's not nice. I'm really scared now."_

_"You need to be, Clarice."_

_"Why?"_

_Maureen turned and looked at her, holding Clarice's face in her hands. "Will you tell me, if Dad starts looking at you weird?"_

_"Like when I wake up and eat the last piece of pie?"_

_"No, baby. Just tell me, okay?"_

_"I promise."_

_"Cross your heart?"_

_Clarice crossed her heart and smiled._

_"And hope to die?"_

_"Who has to die to keep a promise?" Clarice whispered._

_Maureen smiled thinly. "I'd die, to keep you safe from anything that tried to hurt you. I made that promise to you when you were born. That's what big sisters do. Do you understand, Clarice?"_

_Clarice stared at her, truly afraid for the first time that day._

_"Clarice?"_

"Clarice?"

She opened her eyes, staring into the ever-changing hazel ones that belonged to Tom.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I was just thinking about my sister."

Tom sat next to her, though far enough that she still had her space. Maybe Ardelia had warned him, but he seemed to read people well enough to understand their simple cues.

"Ardelia told me about what happened to your family. How did you keep living here, after –"

"It's home," Clarice said. "My family has been here for two hundred years, planting cotton, then planting trees. My grandmother and I couldn't leave it, not yet."

"Is that why you kept the house?"

She nodded. "I'll still be here in some way, but it's time to let the land go to someone who loves it more than I do."

"You're a generous person, Clarice."

"Just with Ardelia. She and my grandmother pulled me out of myself after… well, after everything. She's as much a sister as Maureen was, so the land is still in the family if my opinion matters. I don't know what my dad will have to say, but I honestly don't care anymore."

"Are you going to see him while you are here?"

"I planned on going tomorrow."

"You want someone to ride with you?"

"Ardelia already offered, and I turned her down."

"I'm offering."

She stared at him, studying his face. He'd been nothing but kind to her, sweet at the table last night and had two cups of the too-strong coffee Clarice made. And Ardelia trusted him; he'd been her right-hand man for a little over five years.

"It's gonna be a long day. A thirteen-hour trip there and back, if traffic doesn't suck."

"Not a big deal. I make most of the deliveries – drove all the way to Maine last year with an order."

"Dang. Dee didn't tell me we'd gotten that popular."

"We have heritage crops that no one else can match. It gives an advantage."

"Bless Ardelia for saving the trees."

"Bless you, Clarice, for being so big-hearted in giving them to her."

She blushed and turned away. Compliments were hard for her, and she cleared her throat before she spoke. "Come with me then. But you get to drive back; I'll probably be a nervous wreck after seeing my dad."

"Deal," he said. He stood and held out a hand to her.

"No, I've got it," she said, standing up and brushing the grass from her jeans.

"What happened to your arm?"

She looked at the crook her elbow and turned it against her side. "I had an accident in grad school."

"What kind of accident?"

"The kind you have when you start remembering too much about the past," she murmured.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It wasn't your fault. I'm better now, but it kept me from finishing my dissertation."

"You were getting a PhD?"

"In psychology."

"Where?" he said, his voice pitching just a little.

"Yale."

"Oh."

"Not grand enough?"

"Lord, no," he laughed. "I just knew someone once, who taught in a psychology program. But you wouldn't know him."

"I probably wouldn't. I didn't venture too far out of Connecticut, back then. I got some counselling hours at Hopkins, but I never thought I was good enough to keep a roster of patients full time."

"When were you there?"

"At Hopkins?"

"Yeah."

"Five years ago."

"Hmmm," he said, his voice brightening. "Can I cook you some supper tonight? Ardelia put some steaks in your fridge."

"Sure," she said. "I might be able to bake a pie if there's any good fruit in the cellar."

"I wouldn't go down there if I were you. I've been the handyman, while you've been gone. Dee let me live in the house while I fixed the roof and the floors after she hired me. There's nothing but cobwebs and spiders down there, rats too."

"Nuts," she said. "That was my hiding place when Mom caught me stealing food from the fridge. She always wanted me to be all tall and slender, like Maureen."

"I think you're pretty cute," he said, before cursing under his breath.

"Anyways," Clarice said, fighting off another blush. "If there's anything left from last season, I could make dessert."

"There's not much left that's worth eating; you had a good year. But the strawberries are starting to turn out."

" _Mmmm_ … shortcake. Are the patches still behind the barn?"

"Yep."

"Let's go pick some before it gets late."

Tom's reached his hand out to hers before stopping himself. She gazed down at his hand, which was shaking slightly, and grabbed it. Hers trembled too, but she couldn't snap her rubber band without him noticing. He seemed to sense her unease and squeezed, just enough to take the edge off.

They smiled at each other and walked out to the strawberry patch together.

* * *

"You sure can grill a steak," Clarice said.

"I had a good teacher. And that was the best strawberry shortcake I've ever eaten."

They sat at the table, their chairs close together, but not so close that Clarice was uncomfortable. She'd almost let her hand slide to his a few times when they spoke about their pasts. He was living in the after too, and he was enjoying life in the orchards.

"I guess I understand what keeps drawing you back to this place. I don't want to leave, either."

"You don't have to. If you want to live in this house, you can. I don't visit very often, and it shouldn't stay vacant for so long. There should be someone here who loves it."

"You're a very kind woman, Clarice Starling."

"Not always," she sighed. "You'll see, after tomorrow. It's why I don't visit him often. He brings out the places in me that I don't like to acknowledge."

"What kind of places?"

"The angry ones," she said, frowning at her plate. "Every time I look at his self-righteous face, so satisfied that he survived, I want to reach through the glass and strangle him."

"But you wouldn't."

"I don't know what I would do if I was able. It keeps me awake at night and has given me enough nightmares to last for the rest of my life."

"I wish you could talk to…"

"Him?"

He nodded. "He was a good psychiatrist. One of the best. Still would be, if he hadn't retired."

"It sounds like you miss him."

"Sometimes," Tom said. "He was my first lover. I never even thought I was interested in men until I met him."

"Are you gay?"

He shrugged. "I've been with men, been with women. I think I like both well enough. What about you?"

"I don't know if I'm anything. I've never been attracted to anyone," she said, even though she sensed it wasn't the complete truth. "I've never been with anyone, either."

Tom bit his lower lip and played with the fork on his plate, swiping a remaining strawberry through a smear of whipped cream. "What about first base?"

"Nope. A few guys almost got punched in the teeth for trying."

"Why?"

"I guess I just didn't want to give anything away that I wasn't sure about," she said. "My grandmother was strict, and I followed all of her rules."

"Mine was too," he said. "It took being with Michael to make me shake them loose."

"Did you love him?"

"In my own way, yes."

"I'm envious of that."

"Someone will come around," he said. "I'm envious of the person who gets the chance to be loved by you."

She cleared her throat and took the plates to the sink, giving them a quick rinse. "How far away is your apartment?"

"About thirty minutes, almost to town."

"Why don't you stay here tonight? We have to leave early, and it would make more sense."

"I still have a few things upstairs, I think. I'll go check."

She nodded, smiling at the plate in her hand. Ardelia's friendship was always enough to make her hesitate the leaving when she came home. And this… this might give her pause about leaving again for so long. He was nice, and he seemed as fragile as she was, in the matters of the heart. Could she love that man, who made her feel at ease and whose company was easy?

"Maybe," she whispered. "Maybe I could."

"I've got a spare shirt and blue jeans."

Clarice jumped. She hadn't heard him walk in; he'd been as silent as a ghost.

"Perfect," she said, turning around. "Let's leave around four if that's not too early."

"That's late out here, honey." He turned up the radio on the butcher's block between them. "Have you ever danced?"

"Not since high school, and that was with Ardelia."

"Dance with me," he said.

She blushed and looked at her feet. "I don't know."

"One song. I won't get fresh, I promise," he said, crossing his heart.

"Okay. Sure."

She put her hands on his shoulders, rocking with him through two songs that played on the country station.

 _"And I know this is just a beautiful illusion,  
_ _A case of the confusion, between love and desire…"_

* * *

"I'll call you when I'm done. Last time it took an hour before he graced me with his presence, so it may be a while."

"I've got plenty of things to do," Tom said. "Just let me know when you're ready."

"Thank you for this."

"Anytime, Clarice." He covered her hand with his, just long enough to make her skin tingle.

"I better get going," she said and got out of the car. The building loomed ahead of her, electronic fences above the entrance and surrounding the grounds.

It took less time to check in than it had when she was still a kid. She shoved her purse in a small locker, though she kept her license and badge in her pocket, along with a few dollars for a cold drink. By the time she sat at the small booth in the visiting room, she was almost calm.

Until she saw her father sit across from her.

Time had not been kind to Victor Starling. His face was gaunt, and when Clarice looked closely at the vee of his jumpsuit, she noticed the tell-tale scar of open-heart surgery on his chest, centred between the old stab wounds. Hair was grey, wrinkles deep set on his face. When he smiled at her, she saw that his front teeth had been knocked out. She wondered if he'd been wearing falsies before and was now tired of the pretence. He placed a hand on the glass and picked up the phone, motioning for her to do the same.

"Hey, baby," he said.

His voice was the same, though there was real joy in it. Before she could stop herself, Clarice put her hand on the glass over his.

"Hi Daddy," she said and started to cry.

"Calm down. There ain't no use for that."

She nodded and grabbed a tissue, wiping up her tears.

"It's been a long time, since your last visit. Life got you tied up?"

"I guess," she said. "I graduated from school. I even got a master's degree from Yale."

"Wow. Vic Starling's little girl made it all the way to Yale?"

"Yeah. Student loans are a bitch, but it was worth it."

"I bet."

She glanced at him nervously, looking away several times before she spoke. "I gave Ardelia the farm."

"Bout time you did that," he said, smiling. "She comes to see me every year or two. But she mostly stares at me until she decides to leave."

"Sounds like her."

"She loves you a lot to want to come here."

"I guess she does."

"Ever thought about moving back home?"

"Not until this visit," she said. "But I can't leave work."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a Victim Specialist with the FBI."

"Clarice Michelle Starling," he breathed. "You made it out, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I still miss home."

"It'll always be there if Ardelia has any say over it. Which she does, now."

"You're different than you used to be. I thought you'd be hopping mad that I gave the land away."

He stared at her, his blue eyes exactly like hers, the pair blending with hers as they looked at each other through the glass. "I found Jesus. He has helped me find peace with what's left of this life. I'm hoping I can see your mother and sister in Heaven, when my time comes, and tell them I'm sorry for what I done."

"The Penitent Thief," she said.

"I lead a prayer group, in there. Help with the Lutheran Ministry when they come. I feel like I'm finally doing something right."

"I'm…" she said, swallowing a sob. "I'm happy for you, Daddy."

"And I'm happy for you, Clarice."

"I have nightmares," she said. "I'm not sure you can be happy for me. I'm living half a life, out there."

"Don't," he said. "It serves no one to mourn as much as you do for Maureen and the others. I figured my momma would have taught you that."

"I didn't have her for long enough."

"Do you have anyone, besides Ardelia?"

"No."

"Make some friends, honey. You need them."

"I don't know how."

"Yes, you do. You used to be surrounded by them."

"I was," she said softly. The anger was brimming, and when she flicked her eyes back at him, they were cold. "Until you drove them off."

He looked away and took a breath. "I'm sorry for what I did."

"It's hard to trust when so much has been stolen."

"Can I pray for you? I know someone who can give it back if you let Him."

Clarice nodded, wiping her nose before placing her hand back on the window.

"Almighty God, I ask that you bless our sister Clarice with your grace and mercy. Anoint her with the peace that only you can give her and wake up the spirit within her. I ask these things in your blessed name. Amen."

"Amen."

There was a commotion on his side of the glass, and he nodded when an officer spoke to him.

"What's wrong?"

"Some big-name inmate is stopping through on his way to another prison. Two of the guards on his transit got sick with the flu, and they're staying here so everyone can rest up. At least that's the word on the yard."

"Who is it?"

"Some doctor from Baltimore."

She almost laughed, until the shock settled in. "Dr Hannibal Lecter?"

"That sounds right. He's a cannibal or something like that." Vic shuddered. "I'm glad he ain't staying here for long. I've got to go; they're tightening up the place. Will you come back?"

"I'll try. I'll start writing again if you'd like some letters."

"I'd like that, Clarice. I'd like that a lot." He smiled at her. "You sure did turn out pretty, honey. I wish your Momma could see you."

"Thank you, Daddy."

The guard spoke to him again. "I've got to go. I'll be talking to you soon, one way or the other."

She hung up the phone and waved at him as he left. There were more tissues next to her, and she wiped her eyes, glad she hadn't worn mascara.

"Miss?" A guard stood behind her. "We have to close visiting hours early today."

"My dad told me. Dr Hannibal Lecter is here?"

"How did you know that?"

Clarice took out her badge. "I'm his Victim Specialist at the FBI. I'd like to speak with him if the warden clears me."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head the author's note from the previous chapter. Clarice is about to open up.

It took two hours, and an impassioned call to Jack Crawford for them to clear Clarice for a visit.  
  
"You think he's holding out?"  
  
"I do. He's hiding something in plain sight, just waiting for me to find it."  
  
"Why you?"  
  
"He likes me. I don't know why, but he does. Might as well take advantage of it, before the transfer papers are signed. I may never get access to him again in Colorado."  
  
"Do it. I'll make the call to Justice."  
  
"Thank you, Jack."  
  
"We've linked Keith to a series of murders in Tennessee and on the East coast, based on Dr Lecter's profile. The locals call him Buffalo Bill."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"Bad joke that started in Georgia and caught on. The papers said that he liked to skin his humps."  
  
"That's terrible."  
  
"That's the media. He's been dormant for a few months, but I like him for this."  
  
Clarice sighed. "His poor grandmother. I wanted to help her bury her boy, now I'll have to tell her he's been living a secret life as a killer."  
  
"I'll tell her that myself when we know for sure. But I'd like you to be with me when I do."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Does that mean you've thought about the offer?"  
  
"It means I'm thinking about it, instead of not thinking out it."  
  
"Good. Hold tight, I'll speak to Paul Krendler. Call me if he gives you anything; otherwise, I want a report tomorrow morning."

* * *

He was in one of the camps off from the main building, sitting in the middle of a cage. Yards of fencing was wrapped around it, but the officers let her through, guiding her until she stood next to the pen. His back was to her as he thumbed through a copy of Italian Vogue, his fingers lingering over a glossy page that featured designer shoes.  
  
"Hello, Clarice," he said.  
  
"Dr Lecter."  
  
"Did Jack send you to glean more information from me?"  
  
"No. I came here myself."  
  
He turned in his chair, leaving the magazine on the table. "You came all the way to Memphis to see me? People will say that we're in love."  
  
"I've never been in love."  
  
"Why do I believe that statement completely? It's a shame, to be… twenty-seven?"  
  
"Twenty-eight."  
  
"Twenty-eight then, and to have never felt such a delicious emotion."  
  
"I didn't think an intelligent psychopath could feel love, about someone other than themself."  
  
He tutted and leaned against his bars. "I feel love as strongly as you do, and I can assure you that I'm just as sane as you are."  
  
"Some days, that might not be saying much. I'm not always sane, not in the least. And today, I feel like I'm as far from my baseline as I've ever been."  
  
"What is your baseline?"  
  
Clarice hesitated before she spoke, but only briefly. She'd never see him again, so maybe it didn't matter. "Major Depressive Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress."  
  
His lips twisted as he nodded. "You're very frank today, much more so than you've been in the past, and you haven't even touched that rubber band on your wrist. Something has changed, for you to break so many of your rules."  
  
"I saw my father today."  
  
"Is he here in Memphis?"  
  
She nodded. "He lives in this facility."  
  
He was still, his maroon eyes conveying something like sympathy as he silently regarded her. It could have fooled her if she didn't know better, but she was still drawn in by him, and she sat down in the chair one of the officers had rolled out. It was nicer than the one in Baltimore, and she leaned against the armrest, looking at him with the same intensity.  
  
"What did he do, to come to live here?"  
  
Her eyes never leaving him, she said, "He molested ten girls in town, including my sister. Most of them were our friends from church."  
  
"Did he kill your sister? Is that why she stopped living?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Will you tell me the truth, if I ask you what happened?"  
  
"I will."  
  
"Then tell me now."  
  
"Maureen…" Clarice looked away then, staring at the lights above them. If she squinted, she could almost see the harbour lights in Baltimore, the first time she visited. It had been a tacky display, a tourist trap at best, but she'd been mesmerized as she strolled around that night. It was when she decided it was home, for it was so different than the dark world she'd come from.  
  
"Your truth can't be found in the floodlights they've placed around me, Clarice."  
  
"Maybe it can," she said, her eyes shifting back to his. "Those who live in a dark land, the light will shine on them."  
  
"Let me be your light then. Look at me when you speak and tell me what happened on the last night of your sister's short life."  
  
"Maureen tried to kill our father when he started looking at me the same way he did her before it started up. It was her sixteenth birthday. I'd gone to church that night; we were going to have cake and ice cream when I got back. Dad said my mom caught her stabbing him, and Maureen lashed out at her too. Stabbed her in the eyes and throat for looking the other way and not telling. She slit her wrists when she was done."  
  
"Did you find her that way, when you got home?"  
  
"Yes. She was still alive, but I couldn't stop the bleeding. She hugged me to her and told me not to cry because she had set me free."  
  
"But you couldn't save her."  
  
"Her lips were already turning blue," Clarice said. "She died holding me, and I was so scared by what I'd seen that I couldn't move. I called 911 when I found my parents in the living room. It took them thirty minutes to get out to the farm. When they arrived, I was asleep in Maureen's bed upstairs, her body still curled around mine. They thought I was dead too until I woke up and started screaming."  
  
He turned away from her and touched his chair. It was bolted to the floor, or else he might have moved it closer to the bars before he sat down. "You still wake up at night, don't you? You wake up to the sound of your own screams when the officers moved her body and woke you. The last time you felt safe was when you were wrapped in the cold, protective arms of your sister."  
  
"Yes," she said, her eyes filling with tears. She looked away, hastily wiping them from her face.  
  
"You should let that out, Clarice."  
  
"I can't. Not here."  
  
"Then, where?"  
  
"I don't know. Somewhere where no one can hear me cry."  
  
"Someone should be with you when you do. Give you their bosom to rest your head on, in your hour of need."  
  
"People have tried, but it doesn't work. And I don't like to be touched if I can help it."  
  
"It feels like her touch, doesn't it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Touch is important to humans. We were created with the need to touch and to be touched, or else Eve would not have been needed. It protects the body and the mind if we are not hungry for warm skin."  
  
"When is the last time you were touched, Dr Lecter?"  
  
"When they removed my bite mask earlier today."  
  
"That's not the same when you're being treated like…"  
  
"Like an animal?"  
  
She nodded and wiped her eyes again. "What happened to your sister? You never told anyone, except for noting her death."  
  
"I never planned to share that information, with anyone who still lives."  
  
"I've told you things, you tell me things. Your rules, Doctor. Yes or no?"  
  
He regarded her, crossing his legs as he tapped an elegant finger against the table. It made no sound, and she realized his nails were bitten to the quick. "I came home from boarding school to help raise Mischa after my parents died. I should have known something was wrong, but I was a child myself."  
  
"You were sixteen. I doubt you were ever a child."  
  
"Perhaps I should say I didn't know much of the world, beyond my books. She started to refuse trips to the stables, even though she doted on the horses. The groom was inappropriate with her, though I didn't discover that fact until after it was too late."  
  
"Did he kill her?"  
  
"Yes. I heard her screaming while I was playing the harpsichord in our salon. Her body was in an old fire pit close to the main house. She'd been strangled with her own little shoelace. Mischa was still warm, though her life had drained from her eyes by the time I found her. No loving last words. Only grief and accusation for not seeing what was in front of me."  
  
His eyes were almost dead as he spoke, without the spark that had drawn her in at their first meeting. Compassion, even for this man who had killed so many, moved through her mind and body. She looked over her shoulder and saw that the officers were busy speaking to each other while changing shifts. Clarice took a chance and stood, moving closer to the cage. She felt no fear when she reached her hand through the space between the bars. He inhaled a breath and stood, moving in front of her. She laid her hand against his cheek, feeling his smooth, warm skin beneath it. His jaw clenched, and he placed his hand over hers.  
  
"Do you know how long it's been since someone touched me with kindness in their heart instead of malice?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I don't remember, either."  
  
She nodded and stepped away, wiping her eyes. She could smell his soap on her hand, and she breathed it in, trying to memorize it. "What happened to the groom?"

  
His lip retracted, showing a cruel smile. "He remained on my family's land as a prisoner, until Will Graham arranged for his timely death. I'm sure his body still hangs where Will left it, dressed out like a moth."  
  
"That's morbid."

"So was Will."

"Is that why you like me? Because I'm not like him?"

"One of the reasons. I also appreciate the fact that you wouldn't let me bully you."

She lifted her chin, but only slightly.

“Proud girl.”

"Sometimes, I am. When I saw my father today, I didn't hate him. I even let him pray for me."

"Forgiving girl. People with his psychopathy are the hardest to reform. Do you think he has?"

"I doubt it. But I think living here has given him a different outlook on what he wants his life to look like. They'll never let him out, and that's probably a blessing."

"Should they let me out, Clarice?"

"No."

"Wise girl, at that. Your father might do it again if he had the chance. But I don't know if I would continue. I think I might like to retire from that life, as I tried to do in Florence."

"You had every chance before you were caught."

"But not a reason."

"Wasn't Will Graham enough?"

He shrugged. "He didn't want what I tried to offer to him, over and over again. When he did, he tried to kill us both."

"Yet, you both lived."

"Was he really living, or am I for that matter? Will chose the road your sister did when he finally stopped the agony of living death. And he set us both free of our mutual obsession, by his sacrifice."

"What about Keith?"

"He was my joy while it lasted. An attempt to recapture my youth."

"Do you know where he is?"

"I have an idea."

"Where is he?"

"Where the mountains are," he said.

"Why did you tell me to run from my home? How did you have the address?"

A beat. "Is that where you are? On your farm?"

"Yes. But it's not mine anymore. I gave it to my best friend yesterday."

"Generous, too. I'd love to have the opportunity to get to know you better. You should be paid back in full, given all those things that have been taken from you."

"If you hadn't gotten caught, you could have been my mentor at Hopkins. I might have continued on with counselling if I'd had the chance to learn from you."

"But the things you would have missed, if you'd not been part of the FBI. Our Keith might have continued his fruitful life if you hadn't taken on the plight of his grandmother. And it's time his lies were brought out into the open."

"What has he lied about?"

"It's in my profile. Jack can email it to you."

"I might ask him to."

"You should, but only after you leave the orchard. Enjoy the peace while it lasts."

"You aren't going to tell me where he is, are you?"

"I have, my dear. Over and over again. You have to learn to listen."

"I'm listening."

"But you aren't hearing. And if I tell you, it'll be over before you can tuck yourself into bed tonight."

"I'm ready for it to be over now."

"I'm not."

She sighed and looked away. An officer was walking to her, motioning that it was time for her to leave.

"I have to go."

"I have something for you," he said. "I was hoping to see you again in my dungeon, but it serves the same purpose here."

She nodded and walked to the cage.

"Don't get so close, miss."

"I'm fine, he's won't –"

"Miss, back away right now," he said, his hand on his gun.

"I merely have a letter for her, Officer Pembry. Miss Starling and I are old friends. Soft paper, nothing more."

The officer kept his hand on the gun, watching as Clarice reached her hand out to Hannibal Lecter. He kept the paper down, his finger resting over the top. Their hands touched again when she took it from him. The touch sparked a flame in both of their eyes.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

"Will you tell me, when the screaming stops?"

"I will if you tell me when me when it stops for you."

"Miss, back away from –"

Clarice stepped back and shook off Officer Pembry's hand when he tried to take her arm, his jagged nails scratching her shoulder. "Don't touch me."

"You will tell me?"

She stared after him as she walked away. "If you tell me. Goodbye, Dr Lecter."

" _Au revoir_ , Clarice."

* * *

"I'm ready."

"Everything okay? You've been in there half the day."

"I don't know if I can talk about it," she said, sniffling as she looked at the paper in front of her. "It ended up being a longer day than I planned. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Thanks, Tom," she said and hung up the phone.

Dr Lecter had sketched a picture of her holding a bouquet of flowers in her hand, with rows of blossoming trees behind her.

"Forget-me-nots," she whispered. She tucked it into her bag and went outside, taking off her sweater as she basked in the setting sun that peaked through the heavy clouds around her.

* * *

He could just see her, through a window to the left of the building he was caged in. Her hair was very bright in the sun, taking in the orange light as though it was part of her.

"Foolish, trusting girl," he whispered.

"What was that?" Officer Pembry asked.

"Evening prayer," he said. He would have lifted a placating hand, but he was currently shackled to the bars behind him as the officers brought in his dinner. A paperclip sat in the palm of his hand, a mistake that was made when he signed the deal that ensured his transfer. Poor Barney was really out sorts, after the embarrassment John caused, or else it might never have happened. "Only the two of you?"

"Damn flu you Baltimore folks brought in is spreading like wildfire. Half of our staff are puking their guts up in the latrine," Officer Boyle said.

"Illness never comes at the right time, does it? Much like labour pains."

"I guess," Boyle said. "Definitely ain't no fun to clean the mess up, on either count."

Hannibal smiled behind his mask. He was about to have fun, of the likes he hadn't had in a very long time. Just once more, before he faced the road that loomed ahead.


	7. Chapter 7

Clarice stared out the window on the drive home, thoughts slip through her mind like the wind that was starting blow in from the west. Even in the darkness, there was beauty in the lush greenery that was still unfolding in the early spring. It eased her enough to relax, even if the image of Hannibal's expression when she touched his face lingered with her. Tom let her remain in her mind, not asking too many questions after they left the FCI, eventually turning on the radio and humming along with the music, his voice a little off-key but pleasant all the same.

They were on the other side of Nashville after stopping for supper when Clarice's work phone rang. She glanced at it, seeing Jack Crawford's name.

"Sorry," she said, looking at Tom. "I've got to answer this."

"Sure," Tom said.

"Starling."

"Where are you?"

"Driving out of Nashville right now."

"Are you behind the wheel?"

"No, I had a friend bring me," she said, sliding a bashful glance at Tom. He grinned and kept his eyes on the road.

"Hannibal Lecter escaped, about two hours after you left."

_"What?"_

"Before you get upset, I know this is bullshit, but bear with me: did you pass him anything in Memphis?"

"Of course, I didn't. He handed me a sketch before I left, but that's all."

"Hold on," he said. He must have had a phone in his other ear, his voice loud but muffled when he spoke. "Someone got sloppy. He had a paperclip and used it to pick the lock of his handcuffs. Killed the local officers who had the bad luck to be assigned to him."

Pembry and Doyle. They'd been worried about her when she'd stayed so long with the man who was considered a monster. "How did he get out? That place is a fortress."

Jack hesitated. "He mutilated their bodies. Swapped clothes with one of them, Pembry, and wore his face until the ambulance that picked him up was halfway to the Baptist Hospital. Then he killed the crew and disappeared."

"Tom, pull over."

"You okay, baby?"

"Clarice, I need you to stay on the—"

"Pull over. _Please?"_

Tom slowed down and parked on the side of the interstate, and Clarice clambered out of the car, almost making it to the grass before she threw up.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She started to cry, the big ugly tears she'd shed when her grandmother appeared in her hospital room after she'd been taken away from the farm. The ground was soft, and she fell to her knees as she wept.

 _Snap_.

"Clarice?"

_Snap. Snap._

Tom kneeled next to her. "What's wrong? You're scaring me."

"I visited a prisoner after I saw my dad. For work," she said. She took the handkerchief he offered her and wiped her eyes and mouth.

"Is that what took so long?"

She nodded. "He just escaped. He's one of those who should never be let out."

"Who is it?"

 _Hannibal the Cannibal._ The title of Frederick Chilton's book almost fell from her lips, so discourteous and rude, and she held them in. "I shouldn't tell you, but it's probably on the news by now. I've been interviewing Dr Hannibal Lecter for one of my cases."

His eyes tightened. "I hate that for you, especially since he's escaped. Do you think he'd come after you and eat you up?"

"No," she said. "He liked me."

"Did you like him?"

A beat. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Sounds a lot like yes, Clarice."

"It's not."

"Is that your boss on the phone?"

"He wants to be my boss, but he's… _oh shit_ ," she said, picking up her phone. "Jack?"

"I'm still here. Go back to Memphis. We can put you in a safe house."

"I don't want to do that."

"Do you own a gun?"

"Of course not."

"I'll check with the locals and –"

"I just want to go home. I'll pack up and head back to Baltimore in the morning."

"Is there someone who can stay with you?"

"There might be," she said.

"And you'll report in tomorrow?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "Do it. Get back on the road."

"Yes, sir."

"Call me tomorrow before you leave. Straight back to Baltimore with no stops. If anything feels off, you call, and we'll send someone to pick you up."

"Got it. Bye, Jack."

She hung up the phone and tried to stand, but she felt too weak and sick. She landed back on her knees and cried out, more from desperation than pain.

"Will you let me help you this time?"

Tom was next to her, holding out his hand. She reached out and took it, wobbling as she rose to her feet.

"I feel so stupid. I guess a part of me thought that he had stopped."

"People like him never stop, even when there's a reason," he said. 

Clarice looked at him, remembering what Dr Lecter had said. It felt false then, just as much as it did now. "But there's never a reason."

"Isn't there?"

The breeze kicked up, and a drop of rain fell on her forehead. The clouds were rolling in behind them, west catching up to the east. She shivered, even though it was a warm evening.

"We better head on out if we want to beat the rain."

"Sounds like a good idea."

"Do you mind staying with me, just one more night?"

"I'd already decided I would," he said. "I'll need to stop by my apartment for a few things. Grab my truck."

Lightning crashed in the distance, and Clarice jumped. "Let's hurry. We still have a ways to go, and it sounds like it's gonna storm."

He opened the car door for her, and she slid into the passenger seat. She was so exhausted that she started to drift off, lulled by the sound of Tom softly humming to himself in the silence.

"What song is that?" she yawned.

"It's Bach," he said. "From the _Brandenburg Concertos_. Do you know it?"

"I guess not. I didn't think a handyman would listen to classical music."

"I'm full of surprises. You'll see."

She giggled and closed her eyes, leaning the seat back as sleep started to claim her.

* * *

"We're home."

Clarice jumped when Tom's hand touched her arm. "Already?"

"You passed out before we got to Lebanon. Didn't even wake up when we stopped at my place."

"Sorry," she said. "I'll drop you off on my way out tomorrow. Did we beat the rain?"

"Yep."

She got out of the car and shut the door, stretching as she walked up the porch steps. The trunk slammed shut, and she could feel Tom rush up the steps behind her.

"I'll cook us up a big breakfast before I go. Why don't you take what's left in the fri—"

There was a cracking noise, like when her daddy used to shell pecans by hand in the kitchen. Pain followed it, and Clarice put a hand to the back of her head as she fell against the front door.

"Tom?"

Her vision had doubled, and there were two of him peering down at her in the soft light from the porch lamp.

"I've been waiting to do this since Ardelia showed me your picture, right before she hired me on full-time," he said, licking his lips. The two by four swiped her head again and mercifully, Clarice blacked out.

* * *

When she woke, Clarice thought she might be dead. Her head hurt worse than she could ever remember, and there was no light around her. She was on her back, and she felt the ground beneath her with her palms, noting the hard dirt, cool and dry from generations of shoes packing it into the floor of the fruit cellar.

She tried to sit up, but nausea rolled through her. Laying back down, she was thankful for the cool floor that soothed the dull, aching pain. Flashes of memory flickered in her mind, of Tom standing over her, grinning as he lifted her from the porch and carried her to the cellar.

 _“Nonononono_ ,” she groaned.

Her head felt sticky, and she touched her clammy brow, fingers moving to the back. A deep cut oozed blood that slowly trickled down her neck and shoulders.

_"Tom?"_

She tried to shout, but it made the pain even worse. She winced, rolling to her side as her head started to throb.

"Awww, you weren't supposed to wake up so soon, honey."

There was light, a bright beam shining in her face. She covered her eyes with her hands as her stomach lurched.

"I've got a cure for that," he said. "Enough to knock out a horse, but you'll live. And we'll get to have a little fun, later on."

She felt the sting in her arm, worse than when she'd gotten too close to a beehive when she was five. But the pain was gone, and she suddenly wasn't so bothered by the dawning knowledge that she was going to die. The world turned in on itself until there was nothing other than white noise.

* * *

He sat in the living room, watching the fire crackle in front of him. He loved this spot the best in the house, almost as much as Maureen's room upstairs. The stains had been carefully removed from the walls, and he'd pulled up the floorboards that had held the blood of Clarice's parents himself. But he could still feel them: the dead woman, made as blind and mute as she'd been in life, lying next to the castrated man who had clung to the life within him.

He'd been drawn to this place ever since he'd heard about the scandal on the news when he was a teenager. It woke something within him that had lain dormant, that Maureen had done something he'd never been able to muster.

So brave, so strong. So poetically right.

When he first stepped foot on the land, it brought his strength back, the strength that had been missing ever since he and Hannibal had faked his death. All that blood had covered his apartment walls, making a picture that no one had been able to ignore.

Not even his grandmother.

He vaguely wondered if she was still looking for him, trying to find his body in every nook and cranny in Baltimore.

It didn't matter. She'd never seen him for what he could be, only seeing the fragile little boy who had been sent to her care after his parents had died in the car accident of his own making.

It'd only taken two quick internet searches on the computer at their neighbourhood library to figure out how to empty the brake fluid in his dad's car. Passive deaths, but death all the same, and a chance for him to break free from his father's abuse.

When the front door opened, he didn't even turn around. He knew who it was, just as he'd known that this would be his first stop after he cleaned the stench of the dungeon from him.

"Hello, Hannibal."

"Keith," Hannibal said. "How are you, my old friend?"

"Were we ever friends?"

"I thought so."

"Did you really think we were so friendly when I had my cock in your –"

"This is a family home. Such language doesn't belong."

"It does in this one. Can't you feel it? It vibrates with the hatred of her father and with the fear those girls had when he took them upstairs."

"Is that where you take your beautiful women?"

"We go to the cellar. It's quiet down there. Peaceful," Keith said. "Ardelia thinks the place is haunted, even though I tell her it's only the old pipes that groan and cry from disuse."

Hannibal sat on the couch next to him, their legs touching. Keith whined softly and leaned against him, letting Hannibal stroke his hair.

"You've been happy here, haven't you?"

"So happy. I'm in love. She's perfect, just like I knew she would be."

"Will she be the last? Your shining, golden ticket?"

He nodded with excitement. "I have a place picked out for her, just across the state line. She'll be magnificent after I take that scar from her arm. You'll see."

"Will I?"

"I'd hoped you'll join me for this one. She likes you. I could tell after her boss told her you escaped."

"No," Hannibal said.

"What?" The giggle was high in his throat.

"It's time to end this."

"I know. I can stop just like you did, after–"

"No, you can't. You'll never be able to stop. You like it far too much now. Much more than I ever did."

Keith stopped laughing and looked at Hannibal. In the low light of the fire, his eyes were almost black. There was a feral quality to them that he'd never noticed, or was perhaps new to him, after all the years he'd been kept in near solitary confinement with only his thoughts and dreams as his company.

"It's time to stop the lies."

"I can stop."

"Then stop now. You could marry that girl. Make love to her, have the children you always wanted and love them the way you should have been loved. But she would have to live."

Keith looked away. "You're trying to control me. I don't need you anymore. I've been on my own and have made so many beautiful things without you."

"You still need me. You always did, or else you'd never have written so many letters. I kept them all, did I tell you that?"

"No," he said. He looked away, tears rolling down his cheeks as he cried without shame. "I still love you. Even though you found someone else, it never changed. Not for me."

"Then stop," Hannibal said. "If you really love me, you'll stop."

Keith blinked twice, then shook his head. "I need this one. Just one more —"

Hannibal took his head in his hands like he used to before he kissed him. Keith Diehl's last thoughts held the love that he still carried for this man, until his neck snapped, shattering the delicate vertebra and severing the nerves that controlled his breathing.

* * *

Her eyes twitched rapidly and responded sluggishly to light; her breathing so shallow that her chest barely moved. Hannibal rubbed her sternum with his knuckles until she curled against the pain, a slight moan in her throat.

"Reckless, selfish boy," he said, eyeing the ketamine on the shelf. It sat next to a clear box full of carefully preserved squares of skin: the trophies he had always loved to keep that carried a scar or tattoo, something to remember them by. He grabbed the bottle and shoved it into his pocket all the same, then hoisted her into his arms. Her head rolled against his chest, her lips grazing a patch of skin below his neck. His skin tingled from the touch, just as it had when she had tenderly stroked his cheek in Memphis.

He looked around, seeing that there was more than enough evidence to show the authorities exactly who Tom Forengte had been: Louis Friend, CC Mehta… ending and beginning with Keith Edward Diehl. When they stepped into the cellar, all of his lies would be borne to the world, leaving a legacy that would always be remembered and would be spoken of with just as much horror as Hannibal's were.

Clarice stirred against him, her eyes unfocused and glassy when they opened.

"Dr Lecter?" Her tongue was thick, her voice slurred.

"Hello, my dear."

"Is he dead?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes and groaned.

"There's no need to speak unless you wish to."

"Are you… eat me?"

"No."

"Good."

He smirked and walked up the stairs, carrying her through the house, past Keith's body and out the front door. It was raining now, that warm rain that precedes the storm. Hannibal looked up at the sky, then glanced down at Clarice.

"Raining?"

"It is."

"First rain… with me."

"So it is. It won't be the last."

She nodded, her lips lifting into a sweet smile. He laid her in the back seat of his borrowed Mercedes, covering her with a blanket. The vehicle had come with amenities that its previous owner no longer minded sharing with a stranger in need. He drove away from Clarice's farm looking back only once in the rear-view mirror, wishing he could have seen her orchard in the morning light.


	8. Chapter 8

Ardelia went through with the pretence of knocking on the front door. After the visits with her dad when she was younger, Clarice had usually wanted a day or two to dwell over the event, letting the rampage of emotions fizzle out until she was back to herself. If she didn't answer, it wouldn't be the end of the world, and Ardelia had plenty of bookkeeping to catch up on. But when the door swung open on the first knock, still slightly ajar after the events of the previous evening, her brain started to fire rapidly, worried thoughts running through her mind.

"Clarice? Is everything okay?" she called out. "That asshole let you seem him, didn't he?"

Hearing no answer, she walked into the house, passing the stairs and glancing into the living room. She saw a bright head leaning back against the sofa, and relief rolled through her.

"Hey, Tom. Did you spend the night on the sofa, or did you take your old room upstairs?"

When he didn't answer, she decided he must still be asleep, and she slipped up behind him, patting his shoulder.

"Wake up sleepyhead; it's past noon. I need to you to check on those saplings out in Row Fifteen. You better get on it, my—"

His head rolled to the side in an unnatural position, skin pale and almost waxy with the cast of death.

"What the _FUCK?!"_ Ardelia screamed. She ran to Clarice's bedroom, seeing the bed empty and perfectly made. Her suitcase still sat on the old hope chest, open and full of neatly folded clothes.

 _"Clarice!"_ Ardelia yelled, running back to the living room, avoiding Tom's body as she sped upstairs. Maureen and Clarice's old bedrooms were empty, as were the bathroom and the old playroom. Down the stairs she flew, racing into the kitchen. The cellar door was open, even though Tom said he'd nailed it shut after being unable to rid it of the pests he swore were down there. A heavy flashlight sat on the kitchen table, and Ardelia grabbed it, turning it on as she walked down the narrow steps.

"Clarice? Are you down here? What happened to Tom? Baby girl, where are—"

Ardelia clamped a hand over her mouth when she saw the large puddle of blood on the floor next to the old well. The beam of light shook when she flashed it over the walls, lighting up the shelves that lined the cellar. The items they held were so macabre that she dropped the flashlight, sprinting up the steps and out the front door to the yard.

"Oh, my God. _Oh, my God!_ _CLARICE!"_

* * *

She was aware of movement as well as pain, though the ache eased from time to time, whenever it hurt enough for her to cry out. Something soft and heavy covered her, and she burrowed beneath it, keeping her cold hands under her legs. A voice spoke to her often, telling her that she was safe and that she shouldn't worry. It was comforting, and she heard her responses even though it didn't seem like they came from her mouth.

There was a salty tang to the air. Clarice smiled, remembering the last road trip her family made to the beach about two years before Maureen died. They'd built sandcastles and buried each other in the wet sand, and their parents had made them wash the grit off in a shower stall outside of their rented home before walking them to the lighthouse at the tip of the bay. If someone had looked from the outside in, they'd have seen a perfect family, so content in each other's company.

But it had all been a carefully constructed lie.

Clarice had chosen to remember the trip in the after, or better still the sweetness of that pretend world, and she sniffed the air again, wanting to remain in that land of forgetfulness.

"Ocean," she mumbled, licking her chapped lips.

"Yes."

"Vacation?"

"Of a kind."

The voice was gentle, coming from somewhere in front of her. She opened her eyes and tried to focus, but with the light returned the pain, and she closed them again.

_"Hurts."_

"Is it bad?"

"Yes."

The movement stopped, followed by a sting below the scar on her arm, then thick, fuzzy thoughts blanketed her.

"Sick?" she whispered.

"You have a concussion."

"Hospital?"

"I used to be a trauma surgeon if you recall." His voice was proud, as it should have been. "I'm more than capable of caring for you. Would you like for me to do that? Be your doctor?"

Clarice tilted her head back, shading her eyes when she opened them. There were two Dr Lecters, almost three, all staring down at her with deep concern.

"Dr Lecter?" she sighed.

"Do you want to go with me, Clarice?"

She dropped her hand over her eyes and nodded. "Dee?"

"Ardelia?"

"Yes."

"We'll find a way to let her know that you are safe."

She croaked a laugh. "Safe?"

"You're safe with me."

_"Big lie."_

"Clarice, I don't lie. And I'm done with hiding behind my words. Only frank honesty, from now on. Do you understand?" His voice was clear and kind, and she felt very unlike herself when she decided to trust him.

"Ocean?"

"Are you trying to tell me you like the ocean, my dear?"

"Lighthouses… harbours… sandcastles..."

"We're about an hour from our destination. When you feel better, we'll find those things together on the beach."

"I'm tired," she yawned.

"Then rest, for a while. I'll wake you when we get there if that would please you."

She nodded, his voice fading in and out as the fog settled around her.

* * *

"Would you like to see where we are? It's almost sunset; the light shouldn't hurt as did earlier today."

Clarice opened her eyes carefully. Dr Lecter's face hovered over hers, his brows knitting together as he watched her response.

"Ocean?" she said, smelling the air.

"We're on the Outer Banks."

"So quiet."

"Very quiet. Our benefactor has a house that lays a few miles away from the others."

A soft bed was underneath her, and when she rolled over, she saw that her pillow was spotted with blood. She touched the back of her head, feeling only a thick braid that covered the worst of it.

"I'm hurt."

"Keith hit you over the head with a plank. The cut is deep, though it did not need stitches."

"Keith?"

"I'll explain in time. Don't fret over it."

She nodded, feeling dizzier with the motion. It took several minutes of dangling on the side of the bed before she felt steady enough to stand. Dr Lecter let her have her space, though he remained close to her when she walked to the French doors on the other side of the room. Squinting, she saw the sea, though her altered vision allowed her to see even more than he could: waves upon waves upon waves overlapping in the bright blue surf.

"It's cold."

"It won't stay cold for long. When you're up to it, we can walk on the beach together. Watch the terns make their nests."

"Terns," she said, smiling.

A finger grazed her shoulder. She looked down, closing an eye. It was only one finger, barely touching an arm covered in silk pyjamas that she didn't remember owning.

"Do you want to stay here with me?"

"You… want me?"

 _"Yes,"_ he said.

She lifted her eyes to his, unable to focus for long, but seeing a need that strengthened her resolve. "I'll stay."

Dr Lecter's smile was small, though intense enough for her to understand that he was pleased with the decision. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder as she closed her eyes.

* * *

"You better not fucking tell me that I shouldn't raise my voice! My best friend is missing, and it's your goddamn fault!" Ardelia yelled into the phone. She waved at Jimmy when he put a finger to his lips, motioning for him to take the kids out to play on the swing set in the back yard. "Why the living _FUCK_ was she interviewing Hannibal Lecter? Clarice is a glorified—"

"Mrs Mapp, we're just as concerned as—"

"Mr Crawford, I really doubt that you could even begin to be as concerned as I am. That girl is my family, and I'm all the family she's got, other than a few cousins her mother had in Montana that she's never even met. Now, you better level with me and treat me like her family, or I swear to God, I'll make your life a living hell."

"It already is," Jack Crawford said, sighing into the phone.

"What the fuck happened in that house? You tell it to me straight. I used to think I could sniff out a fib pretty well, but now my whole world has been chucked upside down. I need a big dose of truth. And you're going to give it to me."

"Your assistant manager's real name was Keith Diehl. Does that sound familiar?"

"That name doesn't mean anything to me."

"Then does the name Buffalo Bill ring a bell?"

Ardelia tapped her foot twice before a wave of panicky sickness fell into her belly. "The serial killer who leaves women in the marshes? Rapes them and cuts pieces of their skin off?"

"They are the same person. Tom and Keith, along with a few other aliases. Your employee was Buffalo Bill."

 _"FUCK,"_ she said, breathing hard. "Where's Clarice? There was blood… oh _fuck_ … where's… _WHERE IS SHE?"_

"My team will be out there tomorrow, first light. The local police found no evidence that she's dead. All of his… _trophies_ were older, nothing new from when we think the last murder occurred."

"She's alive?" She looked up at the ceiling, silently saying one of the many prayers she had fervently uttered since she left the farmhouse.

"We have to believe that she is."

"Did she kill him?"

"Someone with great physical strength killed Mr Diehl. It's possible that he had a partner, though my gut says he was doing this alone."

Ardelia sat down hard on a barstool, her hands tearing at her hair. "I don't give a damn about your gut. What are you doing to find her?"

"We've sent her picture to every agency, but until we can process the scene—"

"Does that mean you'll be here? _You_ will be here."

"Yes."

"Then I'll see you myself tomorrow, first light and no later. You had better learn my face, Special Agent Crawford, and learn it well. Because you're about to get a big assed dose of it until someone can tell me exactly where Clarice Starling is."

* * *

"Do you feel up to breakfast?"

It was easier to open her eyes this time. The bright light that reflected off the beach was shaded by soft curtains that diffused the sun to a comfortable level. There was only one Dr Lecter, and he held a bowl of something warm and steaming in his hands.

"Yes," Clarice said.

"Can you hold a spoon? Try, and we'll see what we need to do next."

She took the spoon and dunked it into the bowl of oatmeal, but she couldn't figure out how to lift it to her mouth. Her arms felt heavy, her mind a little drunk, and overall the idea of not eating didn't bother her enough to be too concerned.

"Let me help you," Dr Lecter said. He finished the task for her, and she opened her mouth when the spoon was in front of it.

" _Mmmm_." It was plain, with a little sugar and salt, just the way her Momma cooked it on cold mornings.

"Is there anything you like, that I could tempt you with?"

"This," she said, licking the spoon before he took it away. "What happened?"

"Later," he murmured.

" _Now_."

"Another bite, and I'll tell you."

"Quid…" She shook her head, trying to remember, but the memory sputtered around in her mind.

"It's not important. It'll come back to you."

Sighing, she tried to pull more memories, the ones from that last night settling in front of her, though they wouldn't move fast enough for her to see them clearly. "Tom?"

"He's dead, Clarice. Do you remember?"

She frowned, her eyes dancing as images flipped around like the pages from a storybook. Had it happened to her? The pain, the cellar…

"He's a murderer?"

"You're alive. Focus on that, my dear, if nothing else."

"You knew." It wasn't an accusation, as much as it was a revelation unto herself. Their eyes met, hers wide and blue and vague; his intensely bright, yet sad.

He put the bowl on the bedside table. "I tried to lead you to him. Why did you go home?"

"I…" she swallowed. "You."

"Because of me?"

"You see… me."

"Are you really so detached from everyone else? All the wonderful things you are, yet…" His hand crept towards hers on the bed, though he did not touch her.

"I'm frozen."

 _Like our dead sisters._ She didn't even have to speak the words. They were there in the air between them, haunting them both.

Dr Lecter looked away and stood, walking to the doors that divided the far wall. "And I'm a cruel man. A monster." The words were bitter, and even in her daze understanding started to form that might not have happened within the walls of her normal life.

"Not here?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Imagine eight years, Clarice, with only a single day of sunlight. I appreciate this world better, having been without it for so long. And perhaps I'd do anything to live by the sea, instead of slowly dying in another damned basement."

She licked her lips, trying to form the words she wanted to say. But she was tired, so tired that she started to cry, even though she wanted to say happier things. He turned to her, watching her for a moment before he returned to her side, sitting next to her with the utmost care.

"Don't," he said. "Not for me."

Her tongue was thick again, her lips moving but not feeling as though they were hers. "Prodigal Son."

Dr Lecter took a breath, first watching her lips move then looking up into her eyes. "Do you really want to believe the best of me?"

She smiled through her tears, whispering, "Yes, but…"

"But what?"

"Don't… disappoint me… again."

* * *

The dreaming started up for them, after the first night of exhaustion from the prolonged surge of his adrenaline and the ketamine-soaked forgetfulness of her concussed brain. They were without their normal routines, dangerous for people who existed in the after, and neither had developed the new skills they would need to cope when they woke in sweaty sheets, hoarse from screaming against the dark.

Clarice awakened first, her heart and head pounding. The side effects from the small dose of ketamine slipped into an evening glass of warm milk, only enough to keep the pain at bay, kept her mind from reacting too strongly to the nightmare. She lay in bed for some time, replaying the vivid images and reminding herself that it had indeed happened to someone else and not to her, even if she'd never told a soul about what she had seen until it was too late. There was no rubber band around her wrist to snap, nor did she need one as removed from herself as she was.

She was about attempt sleep again when she heard him calling out into the night, speaking in a language she had never heard. But she understood the emotions behind the foreign words and rose from her bed, putting on the wrapper he'd left on the chair before she opened the door. It hadn't been necessary to explore the rest of the house yet, and in the enveloping darkness, she followed the sound of his voice to a room across the wide landing. The door seemed to open itself, even though her hand turned the knob, and it closed behind her in the same manner. He was curled up in the centre of the bed, whispering rapidly between the long, desperate cries of a single name.

_"Mischa!"_

His quilt was deep cream like her own, and she sat on the edge of the bed, information trickling through her mind that reminded her not to wake him. She sat close, enduring his terror as a curious observer, just as he might have done in his previous life. When the worst was over, his breathing slowed, and she gently tapped his hand. Dr Lecter's eyes opened immediately. Reorientation was a quick affair for him, and he blinked rapidly as he looked at the hand, then at its owner.

"Clarice."

"Dr Lecter."

He sat up in the bed, his hand moving to the light before ignoring it, choosing to leave them in the dark.

"Bad dreams," she said.

"Yes."

"Me too."

He inhaled, his eyes flicking to her before returning to a point beyond her.

"Often?"

"Quite frequently, I'm afraid."

Words came to her mind, his own words about comfort and rest. She watched him shudder a few times before making a decision that would affect them both in very different ways. Standing, she removed her wrapper before returning to the bed, scooting next to him and reclining against the headboard. It didn't seem as though he'd noticed her movement until she spoke again.

"My bosom," she said. "Remember?"

A breath. "You aren't well."

"I know," she said. "Rest. Here." She unfastened just the top button of her pyjamas, patting the bare surface of her upper chest, reminding him that she was offering something far more intimate than her body.

He hesitated before almost falling against her, his ear flush against her rapidly beating heart. Her hands went his head, stroking the short greying hair like she would have done if comforting a hurting child.

 _"Shhh._ Safe," she murmured when his warm tears fell on her skin. "With me. _Safe_."


	9. Chapter 9

There were only two chairs on the back porch, sitting close to each other with a small table between. Clarice watched the sun rise, her eyes covered with dark glasses, as she drank a cup of coffee that was much better made than the strong mud she normally brewed. It would be a while yet before she could gaze at the rising sun without her eyes covered, but for now, it didn't matter. There was peace in the morning, especially this one, and she tucked the blanket that covered her legs closer to her, keeping the warmth where she was.

"I had a house that overlooked the sea," Dr Lecter said. He had his own cup and sat next to her, his eyes to the sea.

"Where?"

"Chesapeake Beach. Not far from Baltimore."

"Never went," she said.

"You should have; it's beautiful there," he said. "Peaceful, like it is here. Abigail especially loved staying there. It helped her heal, after…" He crossed his legs and sighed, and he did not say anything more about the girl he had murdered.

Clarice let it drop, sensing there was more he might say when he was ready. The back of her head twinged with the beginning of a headache, and she put a hand to it, feeling the stiff blood around her braid.

"Is the pain bad?"

"Not yet," she said.

"I ordered some paracetamol; it should be in with a shipment of necessities today or tomorrow."

" _Careful_."

He chuckled. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing… fancy. Florence," she said, hoping he would catch her meaning.

" _Ahhh_ ," he mused. "No, nothing lavish. Only the things we need."

"Good."

"I got some books for you. I remember a rumour that you liked really big ones," he said, grinning into his cup.

She smiled, a giggle rising in her chest. "Really big books."

"Poor Barney. You did a number on him; do you know that? He considers himself a modern Casanova."

" _Nooo_ ," she said, the giggle escaping her lips.

"Why is that funny?" he asked. "Even with his faults, he is a genuinely kind man. It would have been a decent match, even if the scales would have weighed in your favour."

"I like… being alone."

"Yet you agreed to come with me."

"Different."

"How?"

"You understand," she said. Her hand went to her chest, covering the spot where his head had lain until they woke that morning. "Same."

"You've never killed anyone, Clarice, or tasted flesh. You and I are more disparate than any two humans could be."

She shook her head, wishing her words would cooperate with her better. "Same spectrum, but…" Her mouth opened and closed, searching for the final words that had just been at her lips. "Doesn't mean that… we're opposite. Same motivation with… with…"

"Different ends?"

She nodded her head, then shook it before saying, "Both frozen."

He took his eyes from the sea and looked at her, meeting her gaze. She removed her glasses, squinting as her eyes were shocked with the morning light.

"If we'd met at a dinner party, perhaps one at my home in Baltimore, would you have lingered after dessert? Placed your hand on mine and smiled at me, your bedroom eyes asking me to take you upstairs?"

"No," she whispered, even as a blush crept over her cheeks.

"I might have taken you there, fucking you until you begged for me to make you come."

_"Stop."_

"Still raised better than that?"

"Rules… my grandmother. Strict."

"When did she die?"

"Seventeen. Lived with Dee, until… college."

"Your grandmother tried to raise you better than she had your father."

"Probably."

"Do you think she succeeded?"

"I think… she couldn't… change him."

"Did she change you?"

She shook her head. "He did." Her eyes started to leak her salty tears, but she didn't look away. "I saw... But I…"

He reached his hand out to her, and she took it, squeezing hard when her shoulders started to shake.

"You didn't tell, did you?"

" _Scared_."

"That he would hurt you too?"

"Yes," she said, the shame she had carried with her for twenty years naked on her face. The ketamine was out of her system, and she was back within her body, even if she wished for the distance she'd had from herself.

"You were a little girl, Clarice. And you saw something no child should ever see."

"I could have… stopped it. Maureen... _alive_."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"I should have… could have… _if_ …" she said, her mind freezing on the word, just as it had done ever since the beginning of her world in the after. Even though her head was pounding, she started to sob, doubling over on herself as the pain in her mind finally unleashed itself, unheeded by the pain in her brain.

He kneeled in front of her, his hands out as though asking for her permission to touch her again. As he had done the night before, she collapsed into his arms, finally letting out the emotion she'd kept buried as she howled against his chest.

* * *

Ardelia Mapp marched to the edge of the police tape and tapped the shoulder of a man wearing a jacket with the letters FBI emblazoned on the back.

"Where is Jack Crawford?"

"Who are you?"

"My name is Ardelia Mae Mapp, and he's expecting me. So, you go on and find him. Go on now," she said, lifting her chin in that way proud southern women do when they mean business.

It worked. Even the well-trained FBI Agent was taken aback by her, and he spoke into his radio. "I have an Ardelia Mapp here to see SAC Crawford."

"I'll be right out."

It took a few minutes before an imposing figure dressed in a dark trench coat emerged from the farmhouse, placing a hat on his head. The front had brought in cooler weather, and Ardelia shivered in her own down jacket.

"Mrs Mapp," he said, holding out his hand.

"Mr Crawford," she said, shaking his hand with as firm a handshake as his. "Where is Clarice?"

"We don't get answers the second we walk in the door, ma'am. You've been watching too much television."

"I don't own a TV," she said. "I like books much better. So does Clarice."

"Smart girls, the both of you." His gaze was intense, enough for her to become uneasy even with her bravado.

"And look at the good it did us," she said. "I hired Tom, let him stay in my home and hers. She liked him so much that she let him drive her across the state and back."

"You don't live too far from here, do you?"

"No, our house is about a mile up the road. It's the house Vic Starling built for her grandmother after he took over the farm."

"Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee? I'd like to speak to you about Tom."

"Like an interview?"

"You could say that. He didn't have many friends, did he?"

"No. This place was his life."

"Then you knew him better than anyone. I'd like to find out more about him if you wouldn't mind giving me your time."

"We'll have to walk. I didn't bother with warming up the car."

"Not a problem. A walk is a good thing for the mind. Wakes things up."

"I think so too," she said.

He followed her down the road, quiet at first before he started working the kind of magic he was known for. "I met Clarice the first time a few weeks ago. I was struck by her persistence and her commitment to do what she felt was right."

"She's a good one."

"She also managed to handle the visits with Dr Lecter better than most, even though he unnerved her. I offered her a job with my department before she left."

"She wouldn't have taken it."

"You don't think so?"

"I know so. This kind of stuff wouldn't interest her."

"Why not?"

"She's a gentle person, Mr Crawford. Seeing death and violence every day would have destroyed her."

"She saw plenty in her position."

"It's not the same, and you know it," she scoffed.

"You've known Clarice a long time. You consider her family."

"I've known her since we were babies," Ardelia said. "It's a small community, one school and not many churches. We were in the same Sunday School class, the same school until we graduated. I saw her almost every day."

"What was she like before her sister died?"

"She's always been quiet. I guess that didn't change. But she knew how to have fun, cut up without getting caught."

"Sneaky kid?"

"Nah, more like sly. She could read people well enough, but she's always been naïve. Always wanted to see the good, even after her dad was arrested."

"There's no good way to ask this, but—"

"I wasn't one of the girls," Ardelia said. "She never invited people home. It stung when I was little until I understood why."

"Did she know?"

"She's never said, but I'd imagine she knew something was wrong, even if she didn't know what it was. The first time she slept over at my house, she said she didn't know parents actually talked to each other like mine did. She was mystified by how close they were."

"Did she stay that way? Mystified by the way partners relate?"

"Pretty much. Her grandmother didn't help – Mrs Starling was Pentecostal and ruled over the house with an iron fist. A kind one, but real firm. I don't think Clarice owned a pair of pants until after she died. The first thing she did when she moved in with us was cut her hair and pierce her ears."

"She lived with you?"

"Yeah." They were coming up to the house, whitewashed with a wraparound porch, a smaller version of the house up the road. Jack followed her into the warm kitchen and sat at a chair at the table.

"How long did she stay with you?"

"Just a year," Ardelia said. Her back was to him as she turned on the coffee pot. "She was old enough to have her own mind, and she didn't want to live in Montana with her cousins. My mother petitioned the judge to let her stay here until college, and he agreed."

"Generous, considering what her father put the community through."

"No one took it out on her. It wasn't Clarice's fault, even if she acted like it."

"How so?"

"She just… she never took part in anything, not after. Her grandmother took her to church an hour away on Sundays, she never joined the band or the choir at school, no clubs. I think I might have been her only friend. She just studied and kept to herself, almost like…"

"Like what?"

"Like she was waiting on something. Probably to leave. She only came home a handful of times after she went to college. Last time I saw her in person was three years ago, and I went to Baltimore myself for that visit."

"Yet, you stayed close."

"We spoke on the phone almost every day." The coffee pot chimed, and she poured them both a cup. "You've asked me a lot of questions about Clarice, Mr Crawford. I thought you wanted to know more about Tom."

"To learn about a hunter, you have to learn about who he hunts. His victims changed around the time you hired him. He hadn't been so picky before, but six years ago, his attention shifted solely to women with red hair, all outsiders who weren't missed until they didn't return to work."

"Shit," Ardelia said. She stared out of the window. "He sought _me_ out for work. Said he'd do anything to learn from me, wanted an orchard of his own. But he never left. And I didn't want him to – he was the best worker I ever had."

"He had a well-constructed shell that covered who he really was. Most serial killers do. It helps to keep them from getting caught."

"Do you think he was obsessed with Clarice?"

"It had crossed my mind."

"Then it's my fault. I was hoping… I was hoping they'd get together. That she'd settle down and stay home. I thought he'd be _good_ for her," she said, wiping angry tears from her eyes. "I talked about her all the time, even showed him her pictures. Fucking stupid, blind –"

"Mrs Mapp," he said, holding up his hands. "You saw exactly what he wanted you to see. Nothing more. He was a chameleon if you want to think of it that way. He could blend in and become whatever he needed to be, to keep up his life and keep killing."

"Do you want me to tell you about him now, or do I need to keep on talking about Clarice?"

"Keep talking about both of them," he said. "Tell me what you know and take your time."

* * *

He watched her as she slept next to him, as still and peaceful as the dead. The morning had worn her down past her limits, which was his own fault. Though he'd known better than to push her so far, he just hadn't been able to stop himself. It was the old man within him, the psychiatrist who didn't always have the best intentions, that rose when he started pushing her. But it was the new man that held her and carried her back to his bed, lying next to her in case the dreams troubled her.

Her brain needed to rest, even if her mind wouldn't let that rest happen. He resisted making the calls that would give him every tool he needed to relieve her of her pain since he'd disposed of the rest of the ketamine last night. Even though he now desired to be the doctor he'd hoped to become when he was a boy, his vast arsenal of knowledge threatened to take over if he let his guard down. And that simply couldn't happen.

When the doorbell rang, he didn't answer it, nor did the postman expect him to. It was a simple courtesy, and the stack of boxes could wait for a while. Hannibal dozed next to her until it rang again, alerting him that the perishable supplies were outside. Then he did leave her, bringing in the paper sacks and boxes that sat in front of the bright blue door.

Nothing extravagant, just as she'd reminded him. He would not get caught this time, and there would be nothing to catch him for. Even if his father's old money was funding this new life, money hidden in untraceable accounts overseas, it was going to provide for a simpler existence that the man would have scoffed at. But Clarice might approve it if she continued to stay with him.

He eyed the selection of meats from the local market. He could have done better with the tools that probably still haunted the old house on Bayshore Avenue, but he could make do with this, and perhaps tempt her into more than a few bites of oatmeal. The selection of books would be more appealing to her, for he felt he understood her well enough to pick out the things she might like. More clothes for them both, along with the toiletries that had been missing.

The bottle of her perfume was different than the aftershave he'd purchased for himself, curved and transparent, topped with a nod to the Bettina blouse. There was a little black dress buried somewhere in the mix that he'd like to see her in if she'd be bold enough to wear it. Images came to his mind of what it might have been like if he _had_ met her in his previous life, so small and kind and earnest.

He'd have wanted to ruin her. He knew that much. And the ruining would have been just as rewarding as the destruction of Will Graham, feeding the monster that lay within him with such sweet satisfaction.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, it was still morning, and she wondered if she'd slept through the previous day and night. She realized was in his bed again, and she turned, seeing him lying next to her, lightly snoring in his sleep. His chest and arms were bare, showing the scars left by the Tooth Fairy. She wondered what they would feel like against her fingers, almost reaching out to touch them before she stopped herself and left the bed, her legs unsteady as she walked to the bathroom. Her brand of shampoo was in the shower as was her favourite soap, and she touched her hair, deciding she couldn't avoid washing it for any longer.

The vanity had a small white chair next to it, and she sat, looking at herself in the mirror as she untwined the braid and felt the back of her scalp. The widest crevice of the cut was impressive, but the reality of it didn't scare her as she thought it would. She found a stack of linens and started the shower, stepping in when it was good and hot. The familiar scents made her feel more like herself, but she got dizzy quickly, needing to sit on the built-in ledge until the room stopped spinning. She might have fallen asleep, surrounded by the warm steam, if not for the knock on the door.

"Are you alright?"

"Dizzy."

"Do you need my assistance?"

"No," she said, her cheeks burning as she grabbed a towel. "Coming out."

"Did you have everything you needed?"

"Yes," she said. "You're observant."

"Like your physician at home."

"Better," she laughed. She dried off and put on a robe, brushing her teeth as she looked down at the sink. A bottle of her perfume sat next to a bottle of cologne. She looked around, seeing all the things she needed, including the expensive lipstick she occasionally treated herself with, at home in his space. "Why is… it's all…"

She opened the door between them. He was leaning against the wall, wearing a robe that matched hers.

"You want me. With you."

He hesitated, taking a breath before answering, "Yes."

"In here. Your room."

"Not just in here, Clarice. Do you think you might like to stay with me after you are well?"

"My life…" she started, then frowned.

Was there anything to return to now? There were no real ties to Baltimore other than work, and she doubted she'd ever be able to return after this, even if she wanted to. But Ardelia…

Ardelia would be fine without her. Better than fine, really. The papers had been signed and notarized; everything was hers. And she had a family of her own that she needed to worry about, instead of constantly fretting over Clarice.

"Not a life," she muttered to herself. She looked at Dr Lecter and narrowed her eyes when he licked his lips. "No sex."

"I wasn't asking, though I wouldn't be opposed to it," he said, winking when her cheeks turned pink. "I would like you to be my companion. Feel your warmth in bed next to me, smell your skin as you shower. Talk with you as the sun rises and sets. I've been alone for a long time, Clarice, and I realize that I don't want to be alone again."

"Fugitives."

"We will be."

"Like with… Dr Du…" her lips formed over the name.

"She wasn't a companion, and she wanted more from me than I did from her. Bedelia was a participant and an observer, with the desire to learn more about what made me who I was. I was a field study of a special kind."

"What would… this be?"

"A marriage of convenience? A partnership? What name would you like it to have?"

"Marriage…" she said, nodding.

"Do you want me to find a forgiving priest?" he said with a chuckle.

"No. But…" She swallowed and started again. "Ask me. Proper."

"I'll make it an occasion you won't forget."

"Thank you."

"So many rules, Clarice. You could always break a few now that you are freed from _your_ old life."

"Can't change… who I am."

He shrugged. "You don't have to. I came to admire the girl with the rules. But seeing you without them… that would be an extraordinary treat."

"Now, now," she said. She looked around the room, seeing a few sweaters hanging on the closet door that were too feminine to be his. "Clothes?"

"I moved them in here."

She raised a brow. "Very sure… of yourself."

"I always am," he said.

"Sure of me?"

"I was."

"Why?"

"Because you like to cuddle next to me when you sleep. Just so you know."


	10. Chapter 10

He watched her as she read, pretending to read at his leisure even though his mind captured the information at startling speed. She'd started to cry when she opened the box, her emotions still labile and leaning towards tears. Her apology had been brief and unneeded, and she allowed him to carry the heavy box to a sunroom that overlooked the sea.

"Live here," she murmured, pointing to the books, then to her head. 

"Why not out in the world, with the rest of the dullards?"

"Here is… safe. Can revisit."

"Did you learn about the concept of a memory palace during your studies? You can take any part of your life with you, wherever you go, and revisit only the moments you choose."

"I know... learned," she said. "More from… detective? London – Bake... Baker Street. BBC?"

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Him. I can… how found… Ur-Self."

"So, you _were_ listening."

"Tried. Tough."

"Perhaps I should give you some anagrams, to help you sort out things."

"Maybe."

"Books for now, and I'll introduce you to the Sherlock Holmes of greater legend when I order more. What will you read today?"

"Hmmm… old friend." She took a copy of _A Farewell to Arms_ and sat in the chair across from his, pulling a blanket around her.

He'd chosen a Neurology textbook, intent on brushing up. Her speech wasn't recovering as fast as it should, and he might have been in error when he hadn't taken her to hospital. The left side of her head was bruised, hidden by the mass of her hair, and he worried that Keith had hit her more than once. She was tracking well enough, and her mind was wonderfully intact, even if her speech was slow and riddled with periods of aphasia. Perhaps he'd adopt a new role as a speech pathologist to help move things along.

"Thinking."

She was staring at him. He'd gotten lost in his thoughts and hadn't even noticed that they'd been watching each other.

"I tend to do that from time to time."

"Tell."

"If you tell me what were _you_ thinking about?"

"You."

He let her win this one. "I'm concerned about your speech."

"Me too," she admitted.

"I was pondering the reasons why your speech is so slow and why you are having trouble with word recall. It gets better every day, so I may be overreacting, but I'd like to be prepared."

"Good doctor."

"With you, I am."

"Thanks. Thinking… Keith... Tom. Same?"

"They were."

"Buffalo Bill."

"All the same person, my dear."

" _Dammit_." She sighed and scrubbed her face with her hands.

"He grew on you, didn't he?"

She nodded. "So nice. Gentleman."

"He could be one when it suited."

Her eyes were sharp and held his. "Pot… kettle."

"But I'm not using my charm to snare you."

"Aren't you?"

"Touché, but my intentions aren't as nefarious as his were."

"Not now. Person… dress?" She shook her head. " _Suit_."

"Not everything about who I am is as simple as those words led people to believe," he said. "I believe I have the potential to be a good man as I was when Mischa still lived, or a gentleman in the way you see one. Past a suit or a veil."

"But… Memphis… the officers. Paramedics."

"The last time I will use death as a means to an end."

"Really?"

"I hope so. I've always striven for perfection in anything I've ever done. Perfect student, perfect surgeon… even psychiatrist when I chose to be. But everyone is entitled to a mistake."

"When? Before… _mistakes_?"

"Perhaps when it came to my previous choice of companion."

"What about… Will?"

"He was perfection when it finally came together for a few beautiful moments."

"You knew… my home. Orchard."

"Keith's last letters came shortly after he started living in your home. He was quite taken with you, even though you'd never met." When her hands started to shake, he decided that some details were better left unshared, even in a place of honesty.

"You knew… who… _me_."

"Just as you knew who I was. We were on a level playing field, even though we were strangers."

"You knew… more."

"Then, as level as it could have been, considering the scenario."

Her eyes were moving, her mind working in ways that both delighted and frightened him. "Scenario," she whispered, before looking back to him. "Projecting? Jack."

"Perhaps I was."

"Fantasies?"

"Imagining your serious face give way to pleasure was an enjoyable way to pass the time. For almost a decade, I've had oodles."

"Name," she said, her brow knitting together. "Not… face."

"Don't be so naïve, Clarice. If Mrs Mapp had been more observant, she'd noticed that when Keith borrowed her phone from time to time, he was sending pictures of you to himself. One of those happened to make its way to me, though badly printed on soft paper. That was before they started holding most of my mail."

"He was… obsessed?"

"Yes."

"Are you?"

He put down his book and considered the question, as he had done so many times over the years. "I react very strongly to you. I couldn't warn you about him, without alerting my keepers that I had been corresponding with a serial killer. I hoped your education would keep you wary of him, but he was able to teach himself how to live in the wild better than I ever imagined. I see now that I built him far better than I knew. When you started writing to me about him, I decided it might be time to plan the perfect escape. It took the better part of the year to run through every possible scenario, but here we are. Though I didn't plan on you going home, and perhaps that was a misstep on my part. Did you enjoy the recipe I sent you, Clarice? The end result should have been somewhat close to the colour of your hair."

"Delicious."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said and resumed his inspection of the anatomy of the left brain.

A long fingernail tapped on the hard cover of her novel, the rhythm similar to the first bar of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Hannibal wondered what she'd been like when she was a counsellor, not quite realizing he was experiencing it first-hand. "You didn't answer me," she said in time with her fingers. "You're hiding something."

He bit his lip and sighed. "It's not an obsession, though it could have been; I'm prone to them."

"Then what?"

"Love, though rather courtly in nature."

"Love…" Her lips were even more attractive when she spoke that word, though her eyes were as vague as they'd been that first day. "If… wanted to… _leave_ … can I?"

"Yes." It was true, as much as it pained him to admit it. "Do you want to leave?"

"No," she said, and he relaxed. "Curious."

"What do you feel towards me, Clarice?"

She closed her eyes, taking her time before she answered. "Protective."

"Anything else?"

"Attracted," she said, that beautiful blush creeping into her skin. "Drawn. Like… moth."

"You're no moth, my dear. You don't sip on tears, nor do you destroy what nourishes you. One could say I'm the moth, drawn to your light."

"Pretty talk," she said.

"It's true."

"Still… might… disappointment. You don't… like… _those_."

"Just how much have you tried to learn about me, from the words of others?"

"Thought it… help. _Visit_. Read Chilton… Du… Du…" she shook her head and continued. "Lounds. Bloom."

"And which one did you prefer?"

A small smile touched her mouth, slightly embarrassed, before she admitted, "Lounds."

"Then good for you. Of all of my old friends, she probably understood me the best. She has a dangerous mind of her own to contend with, one I rather enjoyed knowing."

" _Hmmm_ ," she said. "Wonder what… writing. About you… me."

"You don't have to wonder. I could have a tablet or a computer sent."

"Might… wise. But tracking… can't… too much."

"I appreciate the warning."

"Anytime."

"May I ask you one more question, before I let you return to your reading?"

"Sure."

"Do you think your feelings might grow for me, in time?"

"Already have," she said with a small, timid voice. She looked down at her book and smiled to herself, something sweet and secret passing through her, glancing at him again before she settled back into her story. Likewise, his lips curled an infinitesimal amount before he returned his attention to the chapters on the injured brain. Perhaps a few books on speech pathology _could_ prove useful, though speaking at length improved her situation.

"Dr Lecter?"

"Yes?"

"Like… tulips."

"What colour?"

"Orange."

"I'll remember that. Thank you, Clarice."

She smiled again and turned the page.

* * *

That first night of intentionally sleeping together had its own awkward moments. Clarice had never shared her bed with another person, outside of childhood sleepovers with Ardelia, and it had been some time since Dr Lecter had done as much. He admitted to rarely sleeping if another person was with him, the words settling into her with a tinge of embarrassed amusement. They each had their own routines carried in from the past: both bringing a glass of water to their bedside tables, Clarice needing thick socks for her cold feet, Dr Lecter asking if she would be opposed to listening to music for a while (she wasn't).

In the end, when they laid their heads on their respective pillows, there were no more questions when they turned to each other. Legs shifted shyly and touched, hands reached out and found each other, and eventually, she scooted next to him, tentatively resting her head against his chest before closing her eyes.

If the dreaming came to either of them, they didn't remember in the morning. In their shared bed, there was finally the sweetness of the dreams that came with silence.

* * *

**_A few weeks later..._ **

"More about him… than you," Clarice said. She had on a pair of reading glasses she'd found in the sunroom, her magnified eyes scanning the tablet. They made her look a little ridiculous, but she said they helped her read, so who was he to argue? "New… sensation. _Yuck_."

"Who are you reading?" He sat next to her and glanced at the screen.

"Tattle Crime," she said. "I'm… missing. Presumed dead."

"We can still get word to your friend."

"No. If… dead, Dee can… move? Move on."

"Do you think she can, if no body is found?"

"Yes. Freddie says… partner… no traces… now. Change... method."

"Ms Lounds could have been so much more than a crime journalist," he murmured. "Jack should have recruited her instead of blackmailing her."

"Hmmm?"

"A tale for another time," he said.

"Scoop?"

"All those things you didn't read about, most of which are even more fascinating than the overreaching story. Those devilish little details." He stood and kissed the top of her head before he could stop himself, and they both froze with the action.

"Dr Lecter?"

"I'm sorry."

She took off the glasses and looked up at him. She looked more like herself then, the earnest little rube who had first walked in front of his cell, so perfect in her spring dress. It took his breath away, and the room around them fell still.

"I'm… sure."

"About what?"

"This," she said, reaching for his neck. Clarice pulled him to her, softly kissing his mouth before pulling away and smiling, and a soft, pink tongue touched her lips. She was hunting for the way he tasted, and Hannibal's heart started to pound in his chest.

"There are other ways to go about that, my dear."

"How?"

Such innocence. Perhaps he was leaving one form of fun for an entirely new one.

"Like this." He'd intended on seducing her senses with a single kiss, but he was shaking so hard when their lips met again that he pulled away quickly and cleared his throat.

Who was the last person he kissed? Bedelia, he supposed, as Will had forsaken their physical relationship the second his linoleum knife touched Abigail's skin. And that last kiss with his good doctor had been with all but a fist, the continuation of the tete-a-tete that consumed their complex relationship.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, quickly grabbing the paper from where he'd left it on the coffee table.

"Shouldn't have." She set the tablet on the table and stood, tightening her cardigan sweater around her. "Need… a walk."

"Would you like some company?"

"No. Be… _home_. Soon."

"This home?" He passed her a pair of sunglasses, which she placed over her eyes before she looked at him.

"Only one… I have… is… wii…with you," she said, rolling up her legs of her khaki pants before she walked outside in her bare feet.

* * *

The surf was still cold, but it didn't bother Clarice. She stayed on the warm sand, though she ventured out into the water when her feet got too gritty.

There was a lighthouse in the distance, too far for her to walk to by herself. When she was stronger, Dr Lecter had promised to walk there with her with a packed lunch. Making a day of it, enjoying each other's company as they had been doing in the confines of the private property around the house.

He'd been very blatant in his desire to have a physical relationship if she wanted one with him, and he'd admitted to fantasies of… well, fictions within his mind, after seeing her face. From what she knew of him, which admittedly was through the eyes of people who disliked him (and with reason), he was… if Barney was a Casanova, then a Lothario might be the right term. And if that were true, then she couldn't begin to keep up with him, even within the boundaries of a simple kiss.

Which was all she wanted, wasn't it?

_"Stupid…"_

She walked halfway to the lighthouse, and she had to sit on the shore for an hour before she could find the strength to walk back.

* * *

There were tulips all over the house. Dr Lecter was of the school of too much being vulgar but adding more until it was ridiculous could somehow make everything perfectly right again. Every type and variety were represented, though the simple orange she loved was the dominant flower, a large vase of them sitting in front of her place at the table.

But where was the man? She looked around the house, in all the spaces they normally inhabited together, but he was missing amongst the flowers. She tipped her nose up, trying to find a trace of his aftershave but could not detect it. Perhaps he'd gone out for a walk of his own, in the other direction.

The bottom of her khakis was still wet, and she needed to change clothes. There was a warm maxi dress in the closet somewhere, just waiting for her, and she walked to the bedroom, tossing her trousers and shirt in the wash as she passed it in the hall. That was when she heard the moan, as though he was having another nightmare. She grabbed a fresh towel, still sitting on the dryer and wrapped it around her before walking into the bedroom.

He wasn't in bed either, and she heard the moan again in the bathroom. In her overwhelming inexperience and concern for the man behind the door, she cracked it open, hoping she would not find him on the floor, or worse.

She should have walked away, shut the door and put on her dress. But she couldn't turn back, as fascinated as she was by what she saw him doing in the shower. His back was to her, his left arm moving quickly as his right arm supported him. The moans came quicker, deeper until he sighed a single word that made every nerve in her body turn on completely.

"Clarice…"

His body stiffened and relaxed in turn, skin both scarred and smooth rippling like the waves outside. She wanted to touch that skin as he spoke her name, help him carry whatever weight had kept him from kissing her back. She wanted… she _wanted_ …

_"Oh, Clarice…"_

She wanted him, too.

In the end, the decision wasn't a difficult one to make. She left the towel behind her on the floor, stripping out of her bra and panties as she walked to the glass, placing a hand on its steamy surface before she opened the door and walked in. She was next to him in the spray, the water wetting her hair and body, but he was too far gone to notice until she placed her hand on his left arm. He looked at her then, shame and horror filling his eyes.

"Don't… stop."

"Are you real?" he asked.

"Touch… me. Find out."

He turned off the water, the shower cooling only slightly. Wet hands moved to her neck, moving down her chest and to her breasts, their heavy weight filling his hands.

"Open your eyes."

She frowned. "Closed?"

"Yes, they are," he chuckled. "I need to see your eyes, Clarice."

She opened them, staring up into his. Pinpoints of wicked light almost danced within, and she wondered if she was finally seeing him for who he truly was.

"Do you want me? Or is it merely pity?"

"Want… you. This."

"Do you know what you're asking?"

"No. But… show me. Stronger than… you think."

"I do not doubt that."

"Compli…" she sighed and frowned, searching for the word. "Compliment?"

"More of a complement from my perspective, but we'll discuss semantics at another time."

"Se… Seman… _damn_."

"It's not important," he said, rolling his thumbs over her nipples. She quivered with so much violence that he stopped and placed an unsteady kiss on her neck. "I think we both need to take things slow."

"Slow?"

"We've been devoid of touch and physical presence for so long, or at least I have. We need to learn from each other first. Would you be okay with that?"

"Slow… yes," she said. The relief was immediate. She'd walked in here with only her nerve and no plan, and now that the adrenaline was running away from her, her other nerves were back in full force. She looked down at her feet, then immediately looked back up and into his eyes when her gaze landed on that part of himself that was still reaching out to her. "You… finish?"

"It'll settle down. A cold shower usually helps."

"Blue… ba—" she started until a giggle grabbed her.

"I'm used to them. It's rather difficult to have privacy, even in solitary confinement, with so many eyes watching you."

"Mine?"

"You want to watch?"

"Want to… learn."

"Here, or –"

"Up… to you."

She sat on the marble ledge when he turned the water back on, his eyes never leaving hers. This time when he fell over the edge, her loving hand caressed his back, keeping him grounded in reality.


	11. Chapter 11

"Thanks for coming, Jack." Barney Matthews shook Jack Crawford's hand and led him to the stairwell that would take them down to the basement.

"What exactly is the rush, Barney? You told my assistant that this was an urgent matter but gave no details. I'm not a fan of surprises."

"I didn't want to tell you on the phone. I put off giving Dr Lecter's cell a deep cleaning since we didn't have an occupant for it, and honestly, most of our staff feel that room is haunted. But we have a new patient coming in next week, and I hired a contractor to come in and scrub it down last night." He knocked on the stairwell door before opening it. "Hey Bobby, can you let us through?"

"Mr Matthews." The dark-haired nurse opened the inner gates, the electronic door clanging as it opened.

"So, your guy found something."

"A lot of somethings. He used steam on the walls, and when the mortar started to crumble, he called me in. When I saw what was back there, I called you. We haven't touched anything, but it looks like he was hiding letters and sketches behind a loose stone. Probably hid the cracks with toothpaste; it's a trick they've all used, but he did it better. We never even noticed it in cell checks."

They walked past the occupied cells until they reached the last one on the left. The glass had been removed, replaced with iron bars that matched the rest. Jack looked inside, no longer seeing the room where Hannibal Lecter once lived. There was nothing special about it, and anyone could have lived there. Only, there was a chill that surrounded this one, just as it always had. Instead of invigorating Jack as it might have done while Clarice Starling still existed in the world, it made him weary. Retirement was already looming, just a year away, and looking inside this place where hell had once reigned, he wondered if it wasn't time to step away and finally end the madness that ruled his life.

Barney opened the gate, letting them both in. "You'll see it. It's to the right, very bottom in the back corner."

Jack donned a pair of gloves and kneeled down, withdrawing a bundle of papers that had been tied with thin fabric. He gave Barney a quizzical look.

"Probably from his sheets."

The knot was easy to undo, and on the table that was still bolted to the floor, Jack laid out the papers, looking at each one. While not on the level of Hannibal Lecter (if anyone could be), he could garner a considerable amount of information from a quick survey, and what he saw told him enough.

" _Oh, God,"_ Barney groaned.

All the sketches were of Clarice Starling, in a variety of classical settings. The most upsetting, in Jack's mind, was one where she lay in repose, a swan between her sprawled legs and scrutinizing her unclothed lower body. He knew that painting, having been confronted with it often enough in Hannibal's dining room. It had upset something deep within him, even then, and he ignored its presence whenever he'd been invited to eat as his table.

The rest were letters, all from Keith Diehl's numerous aliases. And among them was a picture of a thoughtful Clarice, standing amongst the rows of trees at her home in Tennessee.

"We gave her to them," Barney said. "And we didn't even know it."

"There's no evidence that Dr Lecter was there that night. No fingerprints, no DNA, not even a single hair from his head."

"Can you honestly look at everything on this table and doubt that he went after her when he escaped?"

"No," Jack sighed.

"Could she be alive?"

"For her sake, I hope not. The blood splatter on the front door shows that she suffered blunt force injuries to her head. If she's alive, she may not know who she is anymore or remember who she used to be. Clarice was Keith Diehl's golden ticket, using Will Graham's old terminology. What she is to Hannibal Lecter, is—"

"What?" Barney swallowed noisily, the sound echoing in the empty room.

"Clarice is the ideal. If she lived and ever strays from what he envisions her to be, she'll suffer an even worse fate than his previous victims."

"Do you pray?"

Jack shrugged and tied the papers together again before placing them in an evidence bag. "I stopped believing when Bella died. But I might pray tonight, for Clarice."

"I hoped she was alive, even though I went to her memorial service." Barney sounded as tired as Jack felt.

"Do you ever want to leave this place, Barney? Just walk out and never look back?"

"Not until today. Now… I think I'd rather do anything than be here."

Jack nodded and looked at the gate. "Let the team know if you find anything else."

"Of course."

They left the cell, and Barney locked it behind them. Neither of them looked back, and Jack was almost to Quantico before he could shake the chill from his bones.

He didn't call Ardelia Mapp with the news, even though she called him frequently for updates. He didn't call anyone, after signing in the evidence bag with Agent Zeller. The next day, a letter of his intent for early retirement quietly appeared on the Director's desk and was approved without question.

* * *

Hannibal caught her singing in the shower, her voice as bright and clear as that of a nightingale.

_"Just lots of goodwill, and maybe one small thrill, but there's nothing dirty going on…"_

He stood outside of the door, snorting when she sang the rest of the lyrics. They'd need to discuss her taste in music, but it was more proof that he'd never be able to completely predict her. But it did prove something he suspected, whenever she tapped her fingers in time with a song in her mind and was somehow able to form complete sentences: her right brain was connecting with those areas that were damaged.

Clarice was frustrated, often reduced to stamping her foot when he couldn't understand her thoughts. Since her speech was still improving, introducing a little more music into her life might help move things along.

When she picked up another song, this one about a Texas whorehouse, he opened the door with a dramatic flair, enjoying the squeak that came from the shower.

"Not… nice," she yelled.

He grinned and sat on her stool, watching her rinse the shampoo from her hair. "I think you find me a very nice person, and in so many ways. I even like those little pissant county places you were just singing about."

"Singing?"

"You didn't notice?"

"No. Mind… wandered."

"To a song about small thrills?"

"Good… movie. Dolly Pa… Pa… _hmmm_. Dolly not far. From home."

"A movie about a whorehouse? My, aren't you full of surprises."

"More than… you… know," she said, accidentally wiping some of the steam from the glass when she reached for her soap. It gave him the tiniest view of her body, just enough to entice his thoughts into things far less innocent than the ideas about her therapy. He shifted and crossed his legs, though not before indulging in a few more glimpses of the rounded curves of her bottom.

"Why don't you tell me about it? Sing a little, put your thoughts into song."

"I… don't… what?"

"Put your thoughts to the tune of a nursery song, if you find that easier. If you can sing lyrics, you might be able to sing your own words. Would you try that for me, Clarice?"

"Fine." She grabbed a towel and stepped out the shower, hair still wet and skin delectably fragrant. He didn't know the tune, but her words were clear when she sang:

 _"I don't know why we're trying this now."_ She clamped her hand over her mouth and stared at him, her eyes wide.

"Cat got your tongue?"

" _Damn_ ," she whispered. "Could kiss… you."

"Then why don't you do that."

She grinned and leaned down, giving him a lingering kiss, her fingers slipping into the vee of his sweater before she pulled away.

"What would you like to do today?"

 _"Hmmm…"_ Her smile deepened, showing the dimple that sometimes sank into her cheek when she was pleased with herself.

"What?"

"Kiss. _More_."

"That could be arranged."

"I can… cook. Dinner. Nothing… faaa… fanc…"

"Sing it out?"

She shook her head. "Try?"

"As you were."

" _Fancy_ ," she said, though there was a tune in there somewhere. "But, good. Simple."

"I would like that, Clarice. Simple food for a simple life. Do I need to put in an order?"

"No. Already checked."

"Been planning something?"

"Maybe." The grin was sly, and the flush on her cheeks told of plans he might be very interested in exploring with her.

"Then might I set the table? It would give you one less thing to do."

"Please." She touched his cheek, the tips of her finger stroking the deep scar briefly before she tightened her towel and walked into the bedroom to dress.

The smile on his lips was devious when he opened the bottom drawer on his side of the sink, inspecting the contents of two velvet boxes. Nothing extravagant, though custom made and purchased from a house with a good, discrete name. It might catch her off guard tonight, considering she saw the evening as her own treat.

"Perfect," he said softly.

"What?"

"Just looking at the window. The weather is perfect for a swim."

"I thought so, too," she said, to the tune of another song he wasn't familiar with. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he said, shutting the drawer. There was a suit in his closet, black with a narrow black tie, that had been purchased along with her black dress. What a pair they would make, with a few candles and flowers between them. "Are orange tulips the only flower you like, Clarice?"

"Wild… Wii… dammit. _You belong among the wildflowers."_

"Perhaps something I could order from the florist?"

A giggle. "Daisies?"

"Daisies, then, for our table." Just a few taps on the tablet and the order was made.

"Ready," she called out, and he walked out into their room. Except she wasn't dressed, wearing one of the slips he'd purchased for her when they'd arrived. Cream lace, almost the colour of her skin, barely covered her as she lay on the centre of their bed. Her quick breaths jostled her breasts enough to entertain the eye, the blush on her chest rising as he continued to gaze at her. "Maybe kissing… more fun. Like this."

He felt like a raw boy when he took off his sweater and trousers, as excited as he was to touch her and be touched by her. He lay beside her, his hand grazing her face and neck. Likewise, she touched his face with the tips of her fingers before shyly kissing him, her mouth following the trail her fingers left. He'd underestimated her yet again it seemed, for she was intent on trying to please him. When her lips rested on the centre of his chest, tongue licking the point of his apical impulse, something inside of him stirred that had nothing to do with his building arousal.

There was a tenderness within him that he'd not felt in years, not since Mischa's death. He loved her in his own way of loving. But his was beyond his experience, that much was becoming completely clear. If the last relationships could be quantified in single words, then perhaps Keith was about youth; Alana, pretence; Bedelia, scrutiny; and Will, reformation.

But her… it was about innocence.

Plainly put, he almost felt as virginal as she was when she touched him, despite his history of sin and all the knowledge that came with that life.

"I almost don't want to spoil you," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

"Not… spoil. Comp… no. _Revive_. Each other. _Renew_. You and me." Her face was serene and guileless, and he could see a similar expression reflected in her eyes. But that look was replaced by frank desire when her mouth descended to his stomach, that sweet tongue still tasting his skin.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

A gentle hum was her response, lips now moving over his scars. If he wasn't so eager, he could almost relax, basking in her presence as though she was the sun. And perhaps she was, for when she looked at him like she was now, resting her head above the band of his boxers, he felt as warm as he'd ever felt in his life.

"That feels wonderful. You're very good at that."

"Not… really."

"Have I misdirected you, since we've come here?"

"Have you?"

Still his smart girl. "I wouldn't, about something as sacred as your lips."

"Sacred…" she said, her smile softening. "Like that."

He could just reach the straps of her slip, his fingers hooking underneath. He hadn't seen her in this state of undress since that day in the shower. Perhaps some things were simply universal. Even in a mind such as his, when he was around an almost nude woman, he only wanted to see more. "As beautiful as you look in this slip, may I remove it?"

"Yes," she said, almost breathless.

He moved the straps over her shoulder until they fell from her, and she slipped the skimpy lingerie from her body before tossing it to the side. She was bare underneath, bare and completely perfect. Her unfettered breasts were tipped with the palest coral, and when he grazed her nipples with his knuckles, her gasp made his heart race.

"Want to... _feel_ you... on me," she whispered. "All… of you."

"Then lie back," he said.

She did as he asked, and he licked one nipple and then the other, tasting her as she had him. Her cries were soft and mewling, and when he suckled a tense nipple into his mouth, she held his head to her breast, giving him her body along with her heart. Her eyes lovingly gazed at him as he teased her, laving the skin between her breasts with his tongue.

"I like that," she said, gasping when he nipped her gently.

"What else do you like?"

"Don't know… learning. Remember?"

"Do you ever touch yourself?" The words were milder than he intended, without the pointed tones he used to use. "Or did your well-meaning grandmother tell you it was unseemly?"

"Strict. Try, but… _hard_ to… enjoy. Even in shower… like you."

"Is that what you were doing in there before you started singing?"

"Yes. Couldn't..." she paused and rolled her head to the side, hiding her expression.

"Do you want to try again, now?"

Her chest heaved with her soft laughter, but she still wouldn't look at him. "Help?"

"I'd planned on it."

He moved over her, covering her with his body as she'd wanted, skin pressing against skin. She finally turned to look at him, sighing as she tilted her head back. Her hands timidly moved to the waistband of his boxers, inching them down until he was freed from the fabric. The sensation of her flesh against his was… well, he had to grit his teeth to keep from ending things before they began. He rubbed against her, merely enjoying the way her slippery folds felt while watching the expressions on her face change from curiosity to erotic excitement. The scent of arousal was around them, infusing the air with their hunger.

"More," she whispered.

"Not until I've asked you proper. Like a gentleman. Remember?"

"Close," she said, straining against him. "Need… _something_."

"Would it disgust you if I used my mouth?"

She almost looked wild when she stretched, her hips moving in tandem with his as they rubbed against each other like teenagers. " _Please_."

So polite. So innocent. So perfect.

He moved his body away from hers, his hands drifting to her thighs. She opened to him without hesitation, and he kissed and licked her until her legs clamped around his head, her body stuttering as the waves of orgasm moved through her. Words were meaningless, though when she finally uttered his first name for the first time in their acquaintance, she grabbed his head, her fingers tugging his hair until their eyes met.

" _Hannibal,"_ she cried, sobbing with delight when he started again.


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

_If those harbor lights had just been a half a mile inland_  
 _Who knows what I would have done  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

Clarice woke after a long nap filled with the kind of dreams she’d always wanted to remember, dreams of a dark-eyed man who was intent on fulfilling every desire she’d never known she could have. Hannibal was spooned against her, his bare body pressed against hers so snuggly that they could have been one person. They’d spent the better part of the day in bed, exploring each other until they were both too exhausted to move. Even though she’d taken him in her mouth, licking him until he’d pulled her off him, he’d been more insistent on pleasuring her, not letting himself find release, even when sweat had dripped from his brow from the torture of holding back. 

He was spoiling her, in a better way than he thought he was. Almost delirious happiness enveloped her like a thick fog, making her forget any of the fears she might have had about the man just a few months ago. 

The clock next to the table was just within reach, and she turned it around, groaning when she saw the time. If she worked quickly, supper would be on the table at a decent hour, even if she dreaded leaving the cocoon that the blankets and his arms made around her. Gently, she worked her way loose from his grip, though he emitted a sleepy protest and tightened his arms.

“Supper. My… treat.”

“Do I have to let you go?”

“Missed lunch. Might… get hungry.”

Sleep was gone from his voice when he chuckled darkly and rested his lips against her neck. “There are other things I could eat.” His stiffening erection settled in the crux of her buttocks, and he thrust his hips just enough to make her whimper. 

“Need food… energy. Or won’t… _mmmm_.” His fingers found her clitoris, tweaking the little bud until it was as stiff as he was becoming. “Maybe… just… _there_.”

“Right there?”

“ _God_ …” 

He was playing with her, stroking her until she was wet and tremulous. Had he ever been asleep? She started to wonder, as he was as alert as he had ever been, perhaps even more so at this very moment. Her mind was still catching up, though it could have been the madness that comes with hours of near-constant arousal. She placed a hand over his, feeling his fingers move over her body, trying to learn just what he did that made her feel so good.

“If you’re thinking that much, I’m not doing a good job,” he whispered.

“Just… want to… _know_.”

“Know what?”

“How you… _ungh_ … how you…” The pressure within her cracked and the words suddenly weren’t so important. All she cared about was this how, the delicious how of the way she felt when she came apart in his arms. He didn’t join her, just as he hadn’t all day, slowing the movement of his hips until he was still. “You… didn’t,” Clarice panted.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

“Hmmm.” She stretched again, her bones and muscles feeling loose and languid. “Feel so… _relaxed_.”

“You never relaxed much before, did you?”

“Not without… alcohol. Drinking. To sleep. Only… when thoughts… were bad.”

“I’m glad you’ve gotten out of that habit, Clarice.”

“Mmmm… could have… another. Now,” she said, sighing when he started massaging her breasts. 

“There are worse things to make an addiction of,” he whispered.

“Supper…” she said. “Have to eat… or else, can’t… continue.”

“The couple was found mid-coitus, starved to death yet still trying to achieve heaven.”

She swatted his hands lightly, and he finally released her. She felt his eyes on her ass, and she swayed them a little more, giving him a tease while she hunted for her robe. It was the first time she’d ever felt comfortable in her skin, self-consciousness suddenly gone from her mind. Maybe it would return when they left this place, but as long as she had these moments, with this man who made her feel like every inch of her body was perfectly made for him, she might be able to manage the world outside. 

“You never told me what you were making,” he said, turning in bed as she walked to the bathroom, his eyes following her every movement.

“A surprise. Good one.”

“As long as it isn’t vegetarian.”

She giggled and turned on the tap, warming her hands in hot water. “Now, now. I like… curry. _Veggie_.”

“Is that what you’re making?” He sounded disappointed, even though it had the air of farce.

“No. Cass… ca… _shit_ ,” she stamped her foot at the sink and tried to think of an easy rhythm to say the word with. A three-note call came to mind, one she heard frequently enough when she watched the news. “Cass- _ou_ -let. Started… last night. Just needs… warmed.”

“Is that what you were doing when you got out of bed? I wondered what was keeping you away from me.”

“Didn’t… sorry. Thought you were… sleep.”

“I don’t sleep as well when you aren’t with me.” She jumped when she looked up in the mirror, seeing him at the door behind her as he tied his robe in place. His hair was getting longer, and it was tousled in a way that made him look like a sweet boy. She dried her hands and turned, running her hands through his hair. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes as she caressed his cheek.

“Have… is this…” She couldn’t find the right words to say, though he seemed to understand her without them.

“This is different. New. I’ve never depended on anyone for anything, until now,” he said, opening his eyes. Despite seeing him naked and feeling his body all over hers, he was completely exposed now, and the vulnerability shone in his eyes. He walked to the sink next to her and opened one of the drawers, taking out a small box before sinking to one knee. “I was going to save this for dinner and ask you during an artificial moment over candlelight, but I need to ask you now. Will you be my wife, Clarice? It would only be in name, a marriage we create for ourselves. Would that be enough for you?”

“More than… enough. For me. _Yes_.”

He took two rings from the box and placed them on her ring finger. It was a simple, brilliant-cut diamond set in gold, the wedding band just as unadorned and classic. He took a third, broader band and placed it on his own hand. 

“Married,” she whispered.

“It’s not what you imagined when you were a little girl,” he said.

“No,” she admitted. “Better. You and me. Because… _honesty_. Love.”

He bit his lip, trying to cover a grin. “Are you telling me your feelings have grown for me, a little more?”

“Yes,” she said. “Love you. _Only_ you.”

“Could dinner wait for just a little while longer?” His hands were inside her robe, opening it enough to expose her naked belly. He pressed a kiss against her stomach, and she nodded rapidly when his lips moved lower.

“Just needs… _mmmm_ …”

“Reheating?” he whispered against her skin.

“ _Later_.”

“Later,” he agreed. 

They walked back to the bed, fabric disappearing as her back met the smooth sheets. He was on top of her, kissing her neck as he opened her thighs, shifting himself between them until he was nudging against her. But this time, he pushed inside, as gentle and slow as she knew he would be. She’d expected it to hurt, and though it wasn’t comfortable that first time, she decided it was the kind of first she’d always wanted. 

There was something deeper that was created when their hips moved together, a connection she’d read about in novels, even in the naughtier parts of the Bible. It was the knowing, knowing the parts of this man that no one else ever would. Knowing him past the books, past acquaintance, past the recognition of his face, and even past the crimes he had committed. It was the knowing of being sure, of discernment… of seeing clearly. Of learning to listen, and of knowing when to speak.

* * *

_**A few years later…** _

Barney Matthews held onto his position at the BSHCI for longer than he thought he would, until the exhaustion finally set in. He’d outlasted anyone who had ever been its administrator, and when he turned in his letter of resignation, it felt more like relief than failure.

He needed a break: to go somewhere he had never been and start seeing the world beyond the stone walls of the hospital.

His tour of Europe lasted two months, the first and final stops in Ireland. And it was on his return to Ireland, feeling more refreshed and like himself than he had in years, that he met a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired lady. In the end, he decided not to board that last flight after all and stayed for another month.

They wandered around the island together; she an attentive guide who showed him the beautiful places he hadn’t seen in his brief tour. In her hometown, they were dining at a café when he noticed the small party in the butcher's shop across from them. He could hear the laughter from where they sat, along with the strands of classical music when the door opened and closed.

“It’s their anniversary,” Imogene said, sighing as she followed his eyes. “First day of spring. Isn’t that terribly romantic?”

“And who are they?”

“The butcher and his wife. They always have a party to celebrate, no matter what day of the week, and he serves the most exquisite food. It’s usually at their cottage out on the bay, but they’re adding some extra rooms.”

“Have you ever been invited?”

She shook her head and sipped her coffee. “I don’t know them well enough. They have a few close friends in the village, mostly the other shop owners. I always thought his missus was a bit of a toff until I got to know her.”

“So, she isn’t so high and mighty?”

“No, actually. She's just quiet. I was at the shop a few months ago, buying a goose for Christmas, when I heard him mention that she’d had a head injury that affected her speech. They have a shorthand they use when she works with him. That's them, by the counter.”

Barney looked through the window, seeing the backs of the mentioned couple. He was well over a head taller than she was and powerfully built compared to her small, curvy frame. 

“He’s a lot older than she is, but my gran was twenty years younger than my gran’dad. And they were happier than most folks ought to be, so there might be something to it. He treats her like a little doll, like she might break without his care.”

He kept watching them, noting the way he held her close to his side. There was something about her and the way her hands moved that was familiar, and when the candlelight caught the highlights in her hair, making it look like auburn turned to flame, he took in a breath. It had looked the same way in his office when she’d rested on his sofa. The afternoon sun had settled on her face as he watched her sleep, making her look like an angel, and he’d wanted to take to dinner to see if he could take the sadness from her eyes.

“ _Clarice_ ,” he whispered.

“Hmmm?” Imogene tilted her head.

“I… _ah_ … what are their names?”

“Tomas and Clara Moris."

When they turned, Barney saw them for who they were, confirming his suspicions. Dr Lecter had had some work done to his face, just enough to trick the eye, and his hair was no longer grey. Clarice looked like a different woman, even though her appearance was unchanged. It was the glow that radiated from her, the joy that had been missing before, along with something else he couldn't pinpoint until his gaze lowered to her waist. Barney’s stomach lurched with revulsion, and he took a drink from his glass of stout, washing down the faint taste of bile that had climbed up his throat.

“She’s one of those cute ones. I’d probably look like a cow, especially with twins.”

“Twins?”

“She's due in April if she makes it that far.”

“April,” he murmured. April would bring another anniversary, of the day she disappeared, if she even remembered the life she had before.

Imogene started speaking of the place that they would visit tomorrow, another village by the sea where they could see the ruins of an ancient castle. Barney was listening to her, but his attention was split between her and the couple who smiled at each other like they were the only two people in the world.

Clarice tilted her head up to Dr Lecter, her laughter shaking her so hard that she held her stomach. Even from his chair, Barney could see the lumps moving beneath her dress, and she grabbed Dr Lecter’s hand, holding it to her belly. But his smile wasn’t like the one he’d seen in the past when the man was Barney’s ward. There was a kindness there, as though he was genuinely happy. It was fleeting, for when his head lifted, as though hearing his true name, his eyes shifted. Suddenly, they were the same eyes – the same cruel, manipulative eyes - from the hospital. Barney slouched in his chair, now very interested in the menu when he lifted it to his face and scanned the deserts.

“Imogene, would you mind if we left tonight?” he said quietly.

“We might not be able to find a hotel room this late.”

“Then we’ll go to the next stop until we find one.”

“What’s the matter?” She took his hand and stroked his knuckles.

“Nothing.” It was the first lie he’d told her, and it wouldn’t be the last. “I’m a little homesick, I guess. If we could find a place where the harbour lights shine a little too bright, I think it would settle my spirit.”

“I know of just the place if you’re up for a drive.” 

He left a note on the table, enough to settle dinner and leave a generous tip, and they left through the back door at his insistence. He left Ireland the next week and never returned, keeping the memory of the butcher’s wife as far from his waking mind as possible.

* * *

“Something’s wrong.” Clara stroked his arm, and he settled back into the self that she knew and loved.

“I thought I heard something. It’s nothing,” he said, shaking off the old man as he smiled down at his beautiful wife. The necklace around her neck had been the perfect addition to her small jewellery box, the tiger’s eyes polished smooth, picking up the highlights in her hair as he had known it would. He brought his hand back to her belly, caressing the squirming arms and legs, a stray foot bumping against his palm.

“Almost time. Ready?” she asked, placing her hand over his.

“I think so. Are you?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Nervous, a little.”

“Don’t be,” he said and kissed her forehead. “If anyone was destined for motherhood, it’s you, my dear.”

She hummed with contentment and rested her head on his shoulder. Even though there shouldn’t be enough room for her stomach to growl, it did, loud enough for him to notice.

“Should we start the first course?”

“Our girls... are starving," she said with a giggle. "Me too.”

He took her to the table, pulling out her chair for her and placing a napkin on the mountain that was now her lap, and passed her a glass of wine, just enough for her to join him in a toast. Their friends sat at their sides and raised their glasses with them.

“To my lovely wife, Clara. May this year bring us even more new beginnings as our little family grows from two to four.” He gazed at her, for a moment remembering how stoic she had once been when she patiently sat across from him while he mocked her. But those days were gone, tidily locked away with the memories of their pasts that they'd chosen to forget. “You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I deserved to be. It’s my honour to honour you tonight and all the nights that lay before of us. My hope is that they will outnumber the days that we lived alone in this world. To my bride, who will always hold the best part of me.” 

He grabbed her hand when she held it out to him, holding it to his chest while she spoke her gentle words.

“Still grows, Tomas,” she said. “Love you today… even more… than yesterday. No rules... could hold it back.”

Perhaps a little dust was in the air, but he felt the need to wipe his eyes after he drank from his glass. When he felt more composed, Tomas Moris cleared his throat and turned to their guests. “This probably goes without saying, but… consider yourself warned. Nothing on our menu is vegetarian. _Bon appetit_.”


End file.
